


Come Down From Your Holy Mountain

by jotunblood



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexuality, Bottom Obi-Wan Kenobi, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, Force Bond (Star Wars), Galactic Road Trip, Guilt, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Medical Procedures, POV Multiple, Past Relationship(s), Pining, Plot-heavy, Post-Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith, Slow Burn, Top Anakin Skywalker, Trauma, friends to enemies to friends again to oh no
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:41:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 138,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22355047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jotunblood/pseuds/jotunblood
Summary: In the wake of Palpatine's ascent to Galactic Emperor, what remains of the Jedi are left to gather their pieces. In the Underworld of Coruscant, a small group remounts and tries keeping faith.Anakin and Obi-Wan just try not to hate each other.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker
Comments: 793
Kudos: 988
Collections: SW Especially Satisfying Stories, hope is like the sun





	1. Level 4657, Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! So, this fic has been rattling around my brain for a while. Like, too long to justify not having started it yet, so here we go. 
> 
> Just a note to say: this starts off pretty heavy, but I promise we get somewhere softer eventually. Stick with me! And definitely keep an eye on the tags, because they'll update as needed.

Obi-Wan dreamed of fire for weeks after the fight on Mustafar. He dreamed lava, the stink of sulfur, and smoke; of air so hot he couldn't cry, though he desperately wanted to.

He also dreamed of Anakin's ruined body, not that that was necessary. He could see that when he was awake.

Maybe he should've left the man to die by the lava flow. It would've been justified; Anakin lost, and he was guilty. Not just of betraying his master, but of killing children and turning against Padme. Padme-- his apparent wife, heavy with their children at the time. 

Of everything, Obi-Wan found that development the most shocking. How hadn't he realized? Anakin had never been subtle. There was no point in wondering now, though. The poor woman was dead, though thankfully the children lived. They'd been ferried off-world and adopted, slated to live full, happy lives. 

Anakin was alive, too, though whether that'd last was uncertain. 

Upon returning to Coruscant, Anakin unconscious and in tow, Obi-Wan had descended several hundred levels into the Underworld. The remaining on-world Jedi-- himself and three other Knights-- had a rendezvous point there in an abandoned warehouse. It'd been an established fallback for decades, though admittedly they'd hoped to never have need of it. As such, it had little to offer in the way of long-term livability. It was meant to be a waystop before the next point further down. The second point, more often used for clandestine meetings and secret counsel, had been better kept, well stocked and fitted with cots. The first point only had two months of stale rations and a threadbare medbay. 

It was there, in the care of 2-1B droids, that Anakin had been languishing.

Obi-Wan made a point to visit, for all the difference it made. The man had yet to show any sign of consciousness. He bobbed lifelessly in a bacta tank, hooked to a rebreather and kept upright by attachments strapped to the stumps of his arms and legs. The ragged ends of those had healed, the process sped by stasis, and the splatter burns on his thighs and back looked better. Those were the only signs of improvement, though. Otherwise, he might've been dead. The way his hair swirled in the liquid made Obi-Wan think of drowning.

Despite the lack of progress, he still visited daily, and often more than once when his schedule allowed. Ignoring the 2-1B units’ reports, he stood in front of the tank for minutes or hours, staring hard into the face of someone he'd once called "friend”. He channeled his power into those gazes, all of his hurt and anger and fear, hoping the ripples it sent through the Force would make _something_ happen. Because he wanted this to end, wanted Anakin to wake up. 

He still hadn’t decided what he’d do when that happened.

Maybe he’d scream. That might feel good for a couple of minutes. Or maybe he’d cry and drag him into a hug, no matter how hard the other struggled. Maybe he’d kiss his sticky hair and promise never to fail again. And he _had_ failed. He was the master, not Anakin. A better Jedi would’ve seen this awful eventuality coming, sensed that a weakness in their Padawan was being exploited. Qui-Gon would’ve noticed. Obi-Wan’s old master had been so insightful that nothing could’ve ripped Anakin from him.

Obi-Wan wasn’t like Qui-Gon where it counted. He hadn’t been ready to take on a Padawan. He couldn't protect him. Thinking that he could had been vanity, and here was the result: Anakin mutilated and unconscious, sunk in bacta.

But he wasn't the only one to blame. He had to remind himself that Anakin was responsible too. He _knew_ Obi-Wan. He'd known that he could trust his master, and he should've done so. If he had--

But there wasn't any point in speculating. As Qui-Gon used to say: there is no past, only the present.

The present was horrifying enough on its own.

* * *

Anakin didn't think he was dreaming. If he was, the zero-g wouldn't be making him sick. But he also didn't feel completely lucid. He couldn't move or open his eyes. Sleep paralysis, maybe. That used to happen sometimes. 

Back when he'd first gone with Qui-Gon and Obi, it'd been a weekly event. Master Jinn said it was triggered by the stress of leaving home, and it must've been, because he hadn't experienced it since he was ten. Until now, apparently, but... no, he wasn't sure. This felt more like skipping in and out of consciousness. He felt weightless, formless, like maybe he was dying.

He also kept having fragmented visions.

A woman screamed in some of them, the sound fizzling to a straining groan. The smell of blood followed, then sweat, adrenaline, and the stink of a maternity den. Then came new, other heartbeats, fast and fresh and healthy, while the first succumbed to arrhythmia.

Other times, he heard voices: one he only vaguely recognized, and one he thought might belong to Obi-Wan. Both were indistinct, like he was listening through water, and so were their bodies. Anakin felt as though he were spying on them through frosted glass.

 _You should've killed him_ , the first said.

The man who might've been Obi-Wan sighed like he'd had this argument before.

 _I couldn't_.

The other scoffed.

 _Then you should've let nature handle it. You've put us in an uncomfortable position_.

* * *

Obi-Wan was scowling at the room at large, though most specifically at Kuli Prim. The stern faced Togruta was, in turn, scowling at him, much to the displeasure of the two other Knights. Not that she cared. Like Obi-Wan, she was ignoring them. This was their fight, and one they'd been having since Obi-Wan returned.

"Forgive me," he drawled, "but I fail to see how this could be uncomfortable for _you_. I've overseen everything, made all the plans for when Anakin wakes, and--"

"The discomfort comes from that beast being here at all." She crossed her arms, anger showing in how her lekku twitched. "His condition is causing undue delay, not to speak of how large of a resource drain he's been. Or do you need reminding of how little we had to begin with?"

He didn’t. He was keenly aware of their predicament. This waypoint was awful, and was never meant to house so many for so long. It also wasn't where any surviving off-world Jedi would try to make contact with them. That particular rendezvous point was several hundred levels further down. Running on an ideal schedule, their group would've been there days ago. 

"We’ve been over this. I thought everyone agreed that any information he could provide was worth the risk." 

"We agreed only after you showed up with him," she snarled, taking a few steps forward. Her boots fell hard, and though she was small, Obi-Wan stepped back. He'd seen the damage she could do at close range. "If you called from Mustafar, you know what we'd have said."

He had a guess, which was why he hadn't called. He had no intentions of leaving Anakin behind. Not really. Not after the passing of one moment of hateful weakness. It wouldn’t have been right, and rightness was all he had left.

Scrubbing at his jaw with his knuckles, Obi-Wan looked to the other Knights for support. The two men-- Lars and Del-- averted their gazes sheepishly. Wonderful. He should've known better than to expect an ally. They rarely took his side these days.

In the absence of the council, all of whom were either dead or missing, Kuli had assumed leadership of their group. For the most part, the arrangement was mutually beneficial. None of the other Knights opposed her, and really, it was fitting. Before everything fell apart, Kuli was slated to join the council. She’d accepted the position only hours before the killings started, a day which felt like a lifetime ago now. Remembering it made Obi-Wan feel ancient. They’d been happy-- all of them, but Kuli most especially. How miserable she looked now was all that kept him from snapping.

“Please,” he said instead, sounding weary. “Let’s not do this. Being angry won’t change anything. Anyway, I’m confident he’ll wake up soon. Just give me until the end of the week.”

It was a tight schedule. The week was already half gone, but it was as much of an extension as he felt comfortable asking for. Any more and he was sure Kuli would’ve spat on his boots. As it was, she only considered the request a moment. Her arms tightened over her chest and her brows knit, scrunching the sharp lines of pigmentation across her forehead.

“And if he’s not awake?”

“Then you can go ahead, and we’ll regroup whenever he is.”

She didn’t look like she liked that answer. Obi-Wan could relate. He didn’t want to have said it, but it was the only option. They’d risked too much keeping Anakin alive to just abandon him; if he had to, Obi-Wan would stay and see this through. There weren’t many rations left, but if he was alone, he could stretch them. After they were gone, though-- well, he wasn’t sure.

Kuli uncrossed her arms and her expression softened. She looked tired, and Obi-Wan wished they hadn’t argued. This was milder than some of their other spats, but he knew each one chipped away at her. He didn’t want to be the cause of that.

“Fine,” she relented. “To the end of the week. Let’s hope Skywalker’s constitution is as strong as you think.”

He could sense that she was already thinking of a way to talk him out of staying, but thankfully she kept those thoughts to herself.

* * *

Obi-Wan spent most of his time out of the warehouse. It was dreary, and the atmosphere tense. There wasn't much work to do there and it small, unlike the temple, where the four of them could've gone days without seeing each other. The cramped quarters, squalid conditions, and ever-present beep of old medical equipment put the group on edge. Most spent their days as far from it as possible, nominally doing recon. 

In actuality, they were just tired of the moldy stink.

Making sure to keep the hood up on his cloak, Obi-Wan walked the level each day until the curfew alarm sounded. He looped an eight mile radius, calling on the Force to augment his speed and help evade the growing Imperial presence. Looking for nothing, he kept himself open to the ebb of the level's energy and the signatures of each being in it. He let their colors and emotions inundate him, grateful for the distraction. It was easier to focus on others, and always had been. He’d never been good at telling himself how to feel.

Every few hours, he made a point to seek out one signature in particular. Whenever his thoughts drifted to her, he honed his focus on Ahsoka, picking through the throng of heat and light in the hopes of feeling her reaching back. 

It was a long shot. He knew that. It’d been years since they’d last spoken. She hadn’t tried, and taking the hint, Obi-Wan hadn’t either. But he couldn’t resist now. The Underworld was her last known location, he couldn’t help but hope to run into her. There were so many places to carve out a life below the surface that it wasn’t out of the question for her to have stayed. And if she had-- if she knew what was happening-- wouldn’t she signal? It wouldn’t have to be much. A soft, mental nudge would do.

He liked to think that during the years he’d spent caring for her, he’d done enough to earn that one favor. But maybe he hadn’t. He wasn’t sure now. Her severance from the Order had always felt like his personal failing, something he was as responsible for as Anakin’s present injuries. And what would Ahsoka think of him if she learned about those? Would she understand, or would it deepen her resentment?

He shook the thought. It was dangerous. There was no point in guessing her feelings, especially when he couldn’t find her anyway. No matter how wide he cast the net, he never caught anything remotely like her. But that wasn’t so disappointing, really. It gave him the freedom to fantasize that she’d left Coruscant years ago. He hoped that was true, that she was safely somewhere else. He hoped that she’d gone on to make a life full of happiness somewhere green.

He hoped she’d forgotten all about him and Anakin Skywalker.

Of course, he had to go back to base sometime. He needed to eat, sleep, and monitor Anakin. That last was most pressing; he didn’t like leaving the other alone. He was vulnerable, and if there was a status change, Obi-Wan needed to know. There were a dozen things to do to secure his health between him regaining consciousness and being interviewed, only half of which Obi-Wan felt could actually be done. The 2-1B units were garbage when the Order bought them, and Obi-Wan wasn’t sure that the repairs he’d made were sufficient.

There’d never been a reason for him to get more than a basic knowledge of droid mechanics. Qui-Gon handled that first, and later, it’d fallen to Anakin. The younger man had always been so good and precise with his hands. Anakin had offered to teach him more than once, but Obi-Wan hadn’t taken him up on it. He’d assumed a day wouldn’t come where Anakin wouldn’t be able to help him.

Qui-Gon used to have several sayings about assumptions. Obi-Wan didn’t want to think of them.

Inferior skill aside, he’d done his best to fix the units. They still malfunctioned sometimes, but not seriously. Mostly, they just crossed language wires. Their limbs were steady and their readouts were good, which was enough. It had to be, because the most important preparation-- the one he spent the most time on-- was fashioning functional prosthetics.

“You’re sure these will work?” he asked Del one evening.

The two were bent over a small table in the medbay. Del was teasing the end of a wire that fed through an old metal arm, pinching it to make the fingers curl and flex. They’d taken it, its brother, as well as a set of legs from a pair of unsalvageable droids. They were mismatched, but the legs had knee joints and the hands functioning fingers, which was more than Obi-Wan could’ve hoped for.

“Fairly,” the man muttered. “But what works in a lab doesn’t always work in the field.”

Obi-Wan knew that, but he trusted Del’s skills. The man had assembled dozens of prosthetics before. He was a field medic by speciality, and known for his ability to cobble limbs from piles of senseless scrap. And what they were working with now was far from senseless, though desperately needed an antiseptic soak. The limbs were prefabricated. All Del had to do was connect the wiring that’d hook up to Anakin’s nervous system.

“I’ve seen you make do with less, old friend.” Obi-Wan caught the man’s eye and smiled. “Thank you, really. Whatever you can do is fine.”

Del returned the smile, but it was guarded. 

“Can I ask you something?” He waited for Obi-Wan to nod. “What’re you hoping this will do?”

Obi-Wan frowned. “Restoring mobility will make it easier for--”

“No,” the man interrupted. “What’s it doing for you?”

 _Ah_. He should've expected that question. Kuli asked it weeks ago, but he didn’t have an answer then. Unfortunately, he still didn’t think he did. He’d been doing his best not to dissect his motivations.

Obi-Wan chewed his lip, considering carefully. To his credit, Del allowed him time. He turned back to his work, adjusting the tension on the wiring. When he was satisfied, he soldered the forearm panel shut and picked up the other. He tinkered with it a while, seemingly forgetting that he had company, and was halfway through a diagnostic before Obi-Wan spoke again.

"A master and student fail together." Another one of Qui-Gon's proverbs. "I couldn't stand to let it end like that."

The man pursed his lips, deepening the lines that ringed them.

"You don't want to lose."

"That's not what I meant."

"No?" Del clipped a wire. "Then try again, and spare the adages. You're not on trial."

It felt like he was. He’d done nothing but field questions and dodge arguments for weeks, and he was tired. He didn’t want to explain himself. He didn’t want to have anything to explain. He didn’t want a half dead Padawan looming over his conscience.

But this was Del, who was quiet, kind, and reminded him more of Qui-Gon than anyone he’d ever met. The older man was patient, and over the years had given counsel when Obi-Wan felt he couldn’t turn to anyone else. They had a good relationship, and the fact that he was risking Kuli’s anger to help now was proof of that. So, he relaxed and allowed himself to open.

“I keep hoping,” he began, “that this is a dream. That I’ll wake up, and none of it will have really happened. That I’ll get dressed, go to the dojo, and see him waiting for me like always. Like--” 

He broke off to clear his throat and felt his eyes lose focus. He didn’t want to look at Del, or the prosthetics, or the bacta tank. He didn’t trust himself to remain calm if he did.

“I need to believe that this isn’t an end.” The words were tight, and his throat ached to give them up. “That all of our work hasn’t been leading to _this_. I need to believe we can come back; all that’s left of us, anyway.”

Del sighed and reached across the table to take his wrist. The older man squeezed it, thumbing the bone as he spoke.

“All things end, son.” He tightened his grip, pinning Obi-Wan seconds before he even realized he wanted to pull away. “I know you don’t want to hear it, and neither does Kuli, but it’s true.”

“What, then? We should give up? I should just let him--”

He couldn’t even say it. He was furious with Anakin, and couldn’t imagine a point in even the distant future where he wouldn’t be. The man had betrayed him completely, and if he wasn’t careful, the hurt of that could sour to hate. But he didn’t want to hate Anakin. He didn’t want the scar from it.

“You think I’d be doing this if that’s what I thought?” Del gave a pointed look to one of the prosthetics. “You should know better.”

He bit his lip, swallowing shame. “I do. I’m sorry, it’s just--”

“I know.”

He released Obi-Wan’s wrist and went back to tinkering. A few moments passed before Del spoke again. When he did, it was measured, careful, and comforting. Obi-Wan felt like a child being talked down.

“I’m not going to lecture you or say you should’ve done different. I don’t have the right; no one does. Not even Kuli. What you must’ve felt--” He shook his head, eyes narrowing on the circuitry. “I won’t insult you by pretending I understand. But I want you to be careful going forward. Skywalker’s unstable. He’s angry, powerful, and…” 

Del closed his eyes, opening himself to the Force. He sifted through the room’s turbulence, separating his and his friend’s emotions from the autoclave that was Anakin.

“Afraid,” the man settled on, echoing Master Yoda. “More to the point, he’s already turned on you once. The feelings that led to that aren’t going to disappear. Quite the opposite, I’d bet. He isn’t going to trust you.”

“I know.”

Obi-Wan would suspect he was being played if Anakin did. Their fight had been terrible, and where Anakin’s mind was at the time suggested a deep, sinking rift had opened between them. It’d be difficult to close, and maybe they never would, but to even think of doing so soon would be foolish. After being mutilated, Anakin would have absolutely no reason to trust him. The truth of that hurt, but no more than anything else.

“You shouldn’t trust him, either.” Del clipped another wire before wrapping it around a ground. “You’ll want to after a while, but do me a favor? Hold out.” He picked up his soldering tool again and closed the panel, careless of the sparks he sent up. “Don’t trust him with an inch until you can trust him with a mile.”

Obi-Wan couldn’t imagine ever trusting Anakin again.

* * *

Someone was singing. 

No, not just someone. Obi-Wan was singing. Anakin was sure.

He didn’t know how long he’d been suspended in this state, or even what sort of state it was. Throughout it, though, he’d managed to save enough up some energy. It wasn’t much. He still couldn’t move or open his eyes, and concentrating felt like cutting through durasteel. His mind was sunk in fog, and he didn’t know if he’d ever crawl out, but this, at least, he could do: he could identify Obi-Wan.

He couldn’t have named the song, but the tune was familiar and hearing it dragged up a memory: Ahsoka unconscious on a cot, he and Obi-Wan pacing, tension broken occasionally by the older man kneeling to take her hand; Obi on his knees, his mouth crushed against her knuckles while he hummed something in a language Anakin didn’t understand. 

The unexpected flurry of emotions stoked _something_. His gut lurched, and this time not from zero-g. His focus narrowed on Obi-Wan, seeking details to flesh out the present. If he could ground himself, maybe he could get free. Maybe he could wake up, break this awful, endless stasis. Maybe he could see Obi-Wan’s face and--

And what?

The thought of seeing the other man drove a spike through his chest. He didn’t-- he couldn’t-- but why? Something had happened, something he still couldn’t quite chase down. The fog was too thick, but not for long.

He was going to claw out.

* * *

Obi-Wan was humming to cover the beeps of the bacta tank. He didn’t want to think about them. Those readouts were static, and it was getting late. There was only one day left before the deadline, and he knew Kuli wouldn’t extend it again.

It was a dreary thought, but one he was already adjusting to. The rations were depleting, but he could make them last. And maybe alone, he’d be able to attend Anakin more personally. He’d heard that was helpful, and it was worth a try.

It was late to start now, but Obi-Wan was doing it anyway. Instead of going out for recon, he’d decided to stay at the medbay. He cleaned and dried the prosthetics Del had finished the other night, prepared the table Anakin would be strapped to when they were attached, took inventory of the medications and pain suppressants still in stock, and reorganized the shelves three separate times.

It wasn’t necessary, apart from cleaning the prosthetics. The rest were tasks he could’ve given to the droids. He wanted to do it, though. It felt more productive than staring, which was most of what he’d done all the other visits previous.

To occupy his mind, he’d been singing a song Qui-Gon taught him. It was one of his old master’s favorites: an Old Alderaanian dirge. Qui-Gon had been fluent in the language, and during his time as the man’s Padawan, he himself picked up enough to cobble together a translation. It recounted the death of a war queen taken down in battle, and her peoples’ deep, lingering grief from the loss. He didn’t know what made him think of it, other than that it was familiar. Regardless, he was glad for the distraction.

He didn’t know how many times he’d sang it through when he felt it: _something_ rolling heavily through the Force. He faltered, hand frozen around a bottle of liquid sedative, and his brow furrowed as he tried to identify the feeling. It felt like the approach of one of his fellows, a familiar Force signature coming close enough for him to detect. That, or one going live all of a sudden.

He swallowed thickly, wondering how dangerous it’d be to hope.

Obi-Wan refused to turn for several minutes, sure that'd all he'd see was a lifeless body. He had to be over analyzing. After all, he’d been living in this sector for several weeks. It was possible that he’d grown familiar with the signatures of those who most often passed by the warehouse, and that he’d picked up on one as they went about their business. Possible, and far more likely than what he wanted.

Seconds later, vital readouts of the tank tick up, tracking a heartbeat registering just above stasis. And then that _something_ redoubled, funneling down to a spike and barreling towards him from somewhere deep and dark. Obi-Wan shuddered, overwhelmed by the clear, bright panic of a drowning man’s reach.

"Bee," he called, hand clenched around the sedative. "Status update, please.”

The droid whirred through it's diagnostic run. A series of atonal dings and blips rang out as it took it's patient's measure.

"Subject is exiting stasis. Brain activity increasing."

Obi-Wan dropped the bottle and spun to face the tank. He scanned it, picking up minute signs. Anakin's eyes rolled feverishly beneath lids which fluttered and twitched, straining to open, and his chest rose and fell more shallowly than the respirator normally allowed. His body wasn't moving, but that wouldn't happen until the bacta drained. Among other things, it was laced with a potent relaxer.

"Prepare the sedative, and get the others. Be ready to move him."

Bee gave an affirmative blip before going to rouse the other 2-1B units. While they prepped, Obi-Wan forced himself to take one step, then another, then three more. Legs that didn't feel like his own brought him flush with the tank, running on auto until his boots knocked the base. His hand found the control panel, disengaged the vacuum, and with a blaring screech of a containment breach, the bacta began to drain.

Aware that his breathing had gone erratic, he tried to get it under control with the aid of a training exercise. It didn't help. The restriction just made him dizzy and he gave up, devoting his attention to Anakin. Sharpening his attention, he bored through transparisteel, bacta, and flesh, hoping against all else than the man would feel his Force signature reaching and grab hold of it.

He didn't pick it up until the bacta was half gone. When it reached his waist, leaving his upper body dripping and slumped, his eyes finally cracked, bleary and unfocused. Obi-Wan gasped, and sunk to his knees to catch the other's attention. He didn't think Anakin would have the strength to lift his head and he didn't want to wait to be seen. Dropping into his line of sight, he put a hand on the tank and stared up, mouth open stupidly, unsure of what to do next. 

Where were the droids? They should be ready. The bacta was nearing the legs' amputation line, and Anakin hung heavily from the restraints on his arms. They'd kept him stable in the bacta, but now they strained his shoulders, insufficient to support his weight when subjected to gravity. Obi-Wan could see the material cutting into his skin and winced. They needed to get Anakin down.

"Bee," he called over his shoulder, harsher this time. "Get moving."

"Incoming," the droid responded.

He hardly registered that, because the sound of his voice seemed to be what Anakin needed. His eyes widened and vision clarified. Where he'd been staring down blindly before, he now seemed to perceive his surroundings. His brow furrowed, forehead and cheeks plastered with hair, as he tried to work out how he knew the man in front of him. It didn't take long. Moments later his expression slacked, shocked and dazed.

Then several awful things happened, almost at once.

With recognition came a searing spike of rage. It rolled through the Force so viscerally that Obi-Wan winced. No doubt the last thing he remembered was that they'd been fighting, and having no clue how long it'd been, he was still bent on violence. All his emotions churned to a furious pitch behind the transparisteel. His regard was hateful, but Obi-Wan refused to draw back. The fact only stoked the other man's anger, and he tried to move. It was an aborted thing, no more than a swing from how he was suspended, and the motion finally brought Anakin full awareness of his body. 

He glanced down at the stumps of his legs, shifted his arms, realized he couldn't touch anything, and all of his anger bottomed out into a panic. He thrashed, wild with confusion, and tried to scream something. The feeding tube still buried in his throat muffled it, and made aware of that, Anakin began to gag. 

His face and eyes went red from the strain, and even through the transparisteel, his choking was audible. Obi-Wan gaped, all his breath punching out in a yell as he smacked the tank, desperately seeking the keypad. When he found it, his fingers trembled so terribly he botched the code, and while he reentered it he cussed, screaming for Bee. This time the droid and it's companions were at his side in moments, calmly droning for instructions.

"Sedate him!" The screech of the tank opening matched his pitch. "Get him down, get-- take that tube out!"

Anakin was drooling around it, eyes glazing, near to passing out. If it wouldn't add to his trauma, Obi would've removed the thing himself. Thankfully, his legs were too weak to even stand and entertain it.

The droids were quick. Bee stuck it's BioInjector attachment into the man's neck to administer the sedative. It was mercifully fast-acting. Within thirty seconds, Anakin's thrashing settled to a weary swing. Though his choking also ceased, one unit still removed the tube. It dragged it out, unmoved by it’s patient’s retching. Another unit secured the man by the waist while it's partner cut the bonds on his arms and legs. Once free, Anakin slumped naked and trembling against the 2-1B, out of danger but lucid enough still to think.

Obi-Wan wished he weren't. He wished the droid had sedated him more heavily, or that he had the strength to get up and avoid the other's gaze. He couldn't, though. He was stuck to the spot, panting and acutely aware that he was crying. His face was streaked with tears and burning. Anakin's was too, but his eyes were hard and accusing, and he kept muttering something so cutting that Obi-Wan thought he might bleed.

"Requesting permission to move the subject for stabilization and further assessment. Confirm?"

And Obi-Wan must've done, because the droids took Anakin away then, leaving him alone in the bacta tank alcove.

He didn't move for what felt like hours. He couldn't find the composure to. His heart and lungs were out of sync, and every breath and beat felt like it might be the last. Each tore through his chest, burning so keenly that he began to cry again. He felt unstable, so removed from his body that he couldn't hope to master it.

He rode the wave, knowing that no one would bother him. The droids were busy, and the others were still out doing recon. He had time to let the hurt work and leave him raw. And had he expected anything less? No. But he hadn't been ready. Objective knowledge had been nothing compared to reality. Anakin's fear and bubbling hate eclipsed everything, and had the man been in control of his powers, he might've killed Obi-Wan. But he wasn't. He was a ragged, ruined doll of himself, still scabbed with burns and using the last of his energy to babble a curse. What felt like one, anyway. Obi-Wan thought of that stare, and felt freshly gutted.

Unable to summon the strength to get to his feet, he vomited where he knelt.


	2. Level 4657, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Thanks so much for reading the first chapter :) Hope to hear more from y'all after this one.
> 
>  **EDIT:** so I'm an idiot and just realized an older version of this chapter was initially posted. Nothing major, just editorial differences & typo corrections, but if you read it for the first time before seeing this, maybe try again! Please and thanks! Sorry for the messy first posting.

When Kuli, Del, and Lars returned hours later, Obi-Wan called an emergency meeting. By then he’d collected himself: cleaned up the vomit, washed his mouth out, and compartmentalized what feelings he couldn’t resolve. There’d be time to address them later. When they were safe at the next rendezvous, he could lock himself in a quiet room and sort all that out. All that mattered now was maintaining a forward momentum, and somehow convincing Kuli to grant him one final extension.

“We can’t move him yet,” he insisted, pacing in front of her. He couldn't stay still, or maybe was afraid to. That last was more likely. “The bacta kept infection at bay, but it’ll be more difficult now. The medication he’s being given needs time to disperse.”

The woman didn’t say anything, which would’ve been concerning if she were anyone else. Knowing that she never wasted an opportunity to bicker, however, Obi-Wan chose to see it as a good thing. Encouraged by the silence, he pressed on more confidently.

“We also can’t attach the prosthetics until the infection resolves. So, even if you wanted to gamble his life, we’d have to carry him. You can guess how much attention that’d attract.”

Again, she said nothing. She only leaned back in her chair, resting her head against its high arching slats. Her fingers curled and flexed, occasionally breaking the pattern to smack the arm rests. She was thinking. Obi-Wan could feel it. Her smooth concentration swirled through the Force like a balm. He leaned into it, hoping it would calm his burning mind. 

“Realistically,” she said slowly, “how many days would you need?”

It wasn’t a _yes_ , but it was close enough that some of Obi-Wan's tension broke. He thought through his answer, not wanting to overshoot and test her. 

“Three,” he decided, then added quickly: “At the most. He’s being given a powerful dose.”

“And the prosthetics are ready?” She waited for Obi-Wan to nod. “How sure are you that they’ll work?”

He hadn’t expected that question and his eyes cut to Del for backup. The man only shrugged, and Obi-Wan frowned. Of course. The other man was only helpful when they were alone. Not that he blamed him. Kuli hadn’t been her best self recently.

“As sure as I can be,” he hedged. “In theory, they’re perfectly functional. In practice, however--”

“I understand. Field prosthetics can be tricky.” The Togruta knocked her left foot against the chair leg and it clunked, hard and hollow. “But, you _have_ tested them?” He nodded, and Kuli shrugged. “Then I suppose we’ll just have to see.”

That sounded positive, but he didn't dare assume. Though she’d never formally joined the council, she shared many of its member's traits. One of the most frustrating was how nebulous she could be. He wouldn't make the mistake of trying to guess what she was thinking.

"Do I have the extension, then?"

She pursed her lips, and for a moment he was worried she’d say no. She didn’t though.

"You have it." She held up a hand, effectively cutting off Obi-Wan's thanks. "But I want to make it clear that this is my last concession." Her eyes took on a flinty edge, and he braced for impact. "His life has no value to me beyond what intel he might possess. Once I’ve got it, my hands are washed of him. If you want to keep a pet, you’ll have to personally maintain it. I won't waste anymore communal resources. Do you understand?"

Del and Lars stiffened, taken aback by the words. Obi-Wan could sympathize. It wasn’t like Kuli to be so callous. She could be hardheaded and challenging, but she never so blatantly disregarded life, even that of someone she considered an enemy. It wasn't the Jedi way, and despite her and Obi-Wan's differences, he knew she was an exemplary member of the Order. She wouldn’t have been invited to the council otherwise, but he couldn’t remind her of that. Doing so would run the risk of making her angry.

"I understand," he said instead, swallowing what he actually wanted to say.

If she sensed that, she did him the favor of pretending she hadn’t.

* * *

The table was cold. So cold that Anakin’s back was starting to ache, or maybe it hurt for some other reason. That was possible. It was difficult to know exactly what was wrong, where, and why. The sedatives the droids kept giving him were stout.

He couldn't get a grip on his power or his body. He could feel them, but couldn’t _do_ anything with either. The injections made him weak, both physically and mentally. And then there was that other, darker issue. One that, if he weren’t so drowsy, would have him in a panic. Even now, foggy as his mind was, it was impossible to ignore. He was as aware as he could be of anything at the moment of his near total limb loss, and was almost dreading his head clearing up. He didn’t want any more focus on that. It already threatened to overwhelm him, and all he had the energy to do was groan and squirm. He didn’t want to think about how crippling his emotions would be when he was finally allowed to experience them fully.

 _Your fault,_ an ugly voice that didn’t sound like his own sneered. But it must’ve been. It rattled like stones inside his head. _Your fault for losing. Your fault for failing, then not having the decency to die._

He thought that being awake would be better. Thought that if he was lucid, that maybe he could do something. That he could find a way to help himself, or at least untangle dreams from reality. He’d thought he could escape or call his new Master.

It hadn’t occurred to him that Palpatine might not be looking for or want him after such a humiliating defeat. It occurred now, though, whenever _now_ was. He was skipping through time, falling in and out of consciousness. He felt as helpless as he had in the tank. The pain was worse, though. Every muscle and bone in his body felt bruised, and he couldn't stop shaking. The room's cold licked like a fire. His teeth rattled loosely, and the stumps of his limbs felt as though they'd been rubbed raw. 

He didn’t know how long he’d been strapped to the table, and didn’t care. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he’d been wrong. The escape he wanted had been death, and he’d sabotaged his exit by clawing back to his ruined body. He’d been stupid. He should’ve known, should’ve realized that something wasn’t right.

He should’ve guessed that being awake would be much, much worse.

 _Obi-Wan tricked you._ That voice again. Anakin groaned, his headache peaking. The insidious sound pounded mercilessly against his temples. 

But it was right. He'd baited Anakin with his presence, and it'd worked. He was right back where Obi-Wan wanted him again. He weak, near defenseless, and under Kenobi's heel. The feeling was as unpleasant as he remembered, with one exception for the worse:

He didn't know how he was going to get out this time.

Sometime later-- maybe days-- Anakin realized that he was awake again. _Really_ awake. His head felt clearer and he wasn’t as cold. He was still naked under the sheet draped over his table, and the room’s air prickled his skin, but the feverish chills that’d made him convulse were gone. His headache had slacked a bit, too. The backs of his eyes were still sore, but it was better. Not perfectly, of course. He was parsecs away from health, but he was improving. He could see, at least, and those dreams and that _voice_ were gone. 

Wanting to test his lungs, Anakin drew a shaky breath. They were too raw for the sterile air and he coughed. It hurt his throat, which still ached from being pried open by the feeding tube. He shuddered, remembering how it felt to have that removed. Obi-Wan’s droid had dragged it out inch by inch. It’d been slick, tasted like bile, and felt like giving an organ up. Until he’d seen it tossed aside, he hadn’t been sure that wasn’t what was happening. If he hadn’t been sedated when it started to tug free, he might’ve blacked out.

He didn’t have long to dwell on the memory. One of the droids was apparently standing by. As his cough settled, he heard it blip and approach the table.

“Awake,” it droned. “Good. You need to be.” 

He wanted to ask why, but his throat was still too tight. He swallowed, trying to force it to relax. While he struggled, the droid bent to loom over him, staring down with little bulb eyes. One was much dimmer than the other. It's body was dirty, unpolished, and badly dented in places, but it was recognizable as an older 2-1B unit.

“You should sit. I will assist. Do not try to resist.”

Anakin could’ve laughed. Did he look like he could resist? He didn’t laugh, though. It wasn’t funny; it was the onset of hysteria. He felt it mounting as the situation came into full focus. The droid wanted him to sit and balance, but he couldn’t. It wasn’t possible. His equilibrium was shot, and if he tipped, he wouldn’t be able to break his own fall.

The reason for that manifested in a phantom limb itch, and he whimpered, the sound sharp as knife at the root of his tongue. The pain of it made his eyes sting, and maybe this was what the sedative had been for: to dull his initial reactions. Maybe he should ask for more.

Unaware of its patient’s racing thoughts, the droid slipped one hand under his shoulders and used the other to cradle the back of his head. It pushed him up roughly and Anakin’s vision swam from the shift. His stomach turned, and on instinct he spread his arms to brace. Stumped as they were, it didn’t do anything other than make him sway. The droid gave a mechanical huff and made a fist. It closed around Anakin’s hair, locking him in place.

“Be still,” the droid ordered.

He didn’t know how. He couldn’t balance anymore, and was worried that when the droid let go of him he'd fall. Hoping to delay that, he finally forced himself to speak.

“Where am I?”

His voice cracked, hoarse from long disuse. It didn’t sound like his. It was as foreign as his body. Anakin hated it, hated everything, but knew it wouldn’t get better until he worked through it.

“Medbay."

The answer earned an involuntary and humorless bark. It hurt, but Anakin was grateful for it. The pain was centering, and the brainless answer cut some of the tension. He relaxed slightly, allowing the droid's grip to steady him.

“Figured. But where specifically?”

The 2-1B’s good eye blipped and something in its chest whirred. It was calling up the location, maybe, or was it confused?

“Seclusion ward,” it said, which was equally as unhelpful. “Don’t worry. You are-- safe.”

The way the words glitched didn’t fill Anakin with confidence. He wondered how long ago droid was last updated. It couldn’t have been recently. The unit was buggy and had no bedside manner. But it’d gotten him off his back, which was better than nothing.

After a few moments, the droid slacked its grip, allowing Anakin to teeter and find his center. His hissed, feeling his panic spike again, but bit it back, focusing on tightening his core to stabilize. It worked, and now certain it’s patient could sit, the droid left him to rummage through a nearby cabinet. 

Vials clinked together, knocked over by uncoordinated hands. The clumsiness reminded Anakin momentarily of Threepio, but he shook the thought. It wasn't helpful. He didn't need memories. He needed to ground himself, and to do that he needed to try to figure out where he was.

Careful not to tip his balance, he craned to look around the room. He'd hoped something-- signage, maybe-- would give him a clue. It didn't. The room was dimly lit, painted gray, and mostly empty. It looked more like a shipyard storage unit than a medbay. The only exception was a chair against the far wall, which was as rickety as the old 2-1B. It's seat was piled with dark fabric, topped with what looked like boots and a wide leather belt.

"What's that?"

The droid's head swiveled, squealing loudly on the joint.

"Clothes. OB-1 brought them earlier."

It took Anakin several seconds to figure out who it meant.

"Obi-Wan," he corrected. "It's a name, not a model number."

He didn't know why he bothered. The droid obviously wasn't listening. It's attention was back on the cabinet it’d been looting. Several seconds later it whirred contentedly, having found the vial it wanted. Pulling it out, the 2-1B jabbed it's BioInjector inside. It drew a large dose of a clear, thin liquid, which Anakin eyed suspiciously.

"More sedative?"

"Local anaesthetic." It pulled it's injector out, spurting some of the liquid to break up air bubbles. "You have a procedure in fifteen minutes." 

Anakin felt his heart drop, or maybe it’d been the room's pressure. Either way, he felt lightheaded all over again.

He couldn't imagine what else Obi-Wan had thought up to do to him.

* * *

Obi-Wan skipped recon again. No one blamed him. Not even Kuli. When he said he needed to sleep, she just agreed. He didn't sleep, though. He tried, but it wouldn't come. He just laid on his makeshift bed, staring dully at the room's west wall. That's where a window would be in a better, newer, and warmer facility. Not that the cold was what kept him up. He was used to it by now.

He couldn't sleep because he couldn't stop picturing how Anakin looked, strapped by the waist to an old metal table. Obi-Wan had gone to drop some clothes off, and was relieved to find the man sleeping at the time. Their last interaction was emotional, and Anakin didn't need the upset. His infection had finally cleared, but he was weak. Obi-Wan didn't want to strain him too much before their journey. He'd need all of his strength just to make it down a few hundred levels.

In hindsight, though, it would’ve been better if man was somewhat conscious. Not enough to interact, but enough to make noise. Hearing him rustle would've made Obi-Wan leave sooner.

Instead, he'd stayed and watched for nearly an hour. It wasn't much different from monitoring his bacta tank, except for that fact that he looked more alive. The color in his skin was clearer and deeper, and his breathing ran rhythmically. Occasionally he tried to roll, but the strap kept him pinned. It made him huff, brow furrowing in dreamy annoyance. Without liquid to suspend it, his hair fell all about, dry and clinging in dirty curls to his skin. He looked almost natural, save for the limb loss. If Obi-Wan tried, he might’ve been able to forget what happened.

But why should he have that privilege? Anakin would never forget. The damage was irreversible, and would likely cause complications as Anakin aged. The stumps of his limbs would swell and blister, requiring more care as the years dragged on. Obi-Wan didn't have the right to forget he was the reason for that.

Sighing, he rolled onto his back and shut his eyes. He pinched them tight, trying to block out light from the hall. It streamed through the doorless entryway, keeping the room from going dark. It was irritating and made it even more difficult to sleep.

He tried not to think of it, or Anakin, or anything. Breathing deep, he imagined he was floating on a wave. He pictured it carrying him out to sea, coating him in brine and dulling his senses. 

He imagined drowning, and eventually fell asleep.

* * *

Del didn't talk to Skywalker. He talked at him. That seemed smarter. In his experience, people didn't like chatting while having limbs attached. They preferred for him to be focused, so after confirming that the anaesthetic had been given, he set up his station and got to work.

It took less than two hours. Legs were legs and arms were arms, no matter who they grew out of. It was an easy job. There were a few stumbling blocks-- the wiring was old and the limbs weren’t fantastic-- but nothing so bad that it took more than a second try. Shoddy materials aside, the limbs should at least last until the next rendezvous. Whatever malfunctioned after that wouldn’t be a problem. There were better materials there, and Del could start over if he needed to.

After the limbs were in place, he ran down a checklist: _make a fist, hold up these fingers, roll your ankles; good, now bend your knees and try to stand; that's it, easy._ In Del’s experience, this tended to be the most troubling part. The procedure itself was painless, but having to relearn how to use their bodies was an uncomfortable, stressful process for his patients. Even the most stoic usually started to panic at this point, so he made a point to watch Skywalker’s face for signs of distress. 

There wasn’t much to see. His brow was knit, but his eyes were still hazy from how recently and heavily he'd been sedated. The lingering effects dulled his expressions, so Del opened himself to the Force instead. Sinking into it, he reached out and sifted through Anakin’s feelings. There he found hot, patternless spikes of frustration and anger feeding over a steady stream of suspicion towards Del. Whenever a finger or ankle responded how the man wanted, though, the mood lightened, everything else momentarily eclipsed by relief. That was reassuring. Skywalker’s responses were natural and healthy. Del suspected they might be wilder if his head was more clear, but that was fine. For now his reactions were safely in range. Anything he might feel later could be dealt with then.

“That’s you done,” Del said, wiping his hands on a towel Bee brought. “For now, anyway. You know what field prosthetics are like.” It wasn’t a question. Skywalker had been in battle often enough to know. “In a couple weeks, you’ll have a whole list of things you hate about them. Don’t be proud. Come to me, and we can troubleshoot.”

The man quirked a brow, and Del could feel him biting back sarcasm. That was good. It meant he was recovering. It’d be a long, messy process, but all of that was better than apathy.

“Do you have any questions?”

He wasn't expecting an answer. Anakin hadn't spoken once yet. He responded to direction, but otherwise hadn't so much as grunted. So, when he actually gave a curt _no_ , Del nearly jumped. 

He masked it by rolling it into action, pushing back his chair and standing up to straighten his robe.

"Have Bee comm me if that changes. Now, try to get some clothes on." He turned to the door, then muttered lowly: "It's kriffing freezing in here."

* * *

Anakin decided the legs were trash after a lap around the room. He could almost picture the sorry scrap they'd been ripped off of. The knees _sort of_ bent and the ankles _kind of_ rolled, but neither did it well. The steps he took were unnatural and the old metal stuck and screeched; he couldn’t shift his weight without the limbs groaning underneath him. The arms were alright, though. The wrists were stiff, but lubricant could fix that. The digits were in tact, jointed, and workable, and could do for a while. 

It wasn’t a long term solution. Del guessed right; Anakin was already working on a list of complaints. He'd wait a while to bring them up, though. He wasn't sure if the offer was genuine, and he didn't want to trip into a trap. That wasn't usually Del's style, but nothing about this situation was usual. He was shocked Obi-Wan managed to bully the older man into this at all. He and Anakin had never been close. But, he supposed that’s what all of Obi-Wan's friends were like.

People tended to do whatever Kenobi asked them to. He himself used to trip over his own boots to please him. The man had a way of wrapping people around his finger. It probably wasn't intentional; if it was, he'd do something more interesting with it. All he ever did was call in small favors, though, or in this case, enormously uncomfortable ones. Still, the job had been done, and all that mattered about it was that he was mobile. Not that he could do much with the newfound freedom. 

Without exerting much effort, Anakin could tell he was being guarded. There was an unfamiliar presence stationed just outside the door. The Force moved darkly around it, swarming like it did around comfortable killers. Whoever the being was, they were determined to keep him in the medbay. He could try to fight passed them, but he knew he wouldn’t get far. He wasn’t used to prosthetics yet, and he was fresh out of a coma. So instead, he focused on the only thing he _could_ do, which was getting dressed.

The clothes hadn’t been his before, but they were the right size. They were also, he noted, the colors he usually wore. Kenobi must've been feeling sentimental when he picked them up. Crafty too, because he'd done some slipshod tailoring. The material had been cropped to account for prosthetics. The pant legs were short enough to avoid catching in the ankle joints, and the tunic was hemmed to the forearm to free up the hands. Admittedly, the alterations would be helpful while he adjusted and make performing maintenance on the limbs more convenient.

Was that what Obi-Wan had been thinking of? Anakin doubted it. They weren't allies. He'd never felt more removed from anyone, and wasn't that strange? His old master had been his anchor, and without him-- without anyone-- he felt more unhinged than ever.

He’d never really been alone. As a boy, he’d had his mother, and then Master Jinn, Obi-Wan, Ahsoka, and Padme. He’d always been able to rely on them, and on the off chance that none of them were available, he’d had a whole dojo of fellow Padawans. Just now, though, he felt isolated. He couldn’t trust anyone in this building, and wherever Padme was, _if_ she still was, was unfathomably out of reach. He couldn’t even sense her flowery bloom of energy on the horizon. If she still lived-- _please, let her still be alive_ \-- he couldn’t guess where Obi-Wan had hidden her.

Biting back the swell of emotion the awful thought dragged up, Anakin refocused on getting into the clothes and boots. It took a while. His legs kept releasing unpredictably and his fingers were too stiff to make good knots. After half an hour, though, he was dressed, if badly frustrated. He was sweating from the strain and dirty hair clung to his forehead. Scowling, he swiped it away. He needed a shower. He reeked and ached. 

He wondered if he could talk a droid into bringing him a washcloth.

* * *

"We move in the morning," Obi-Wan said.

Though the words came out tight, they were so familiar that for a moment the medbay fell away. He pictured them somewhere else-- his or Anakin's room at the temple, maybe-- and that this was the start of just another mission. He imagined Anakin's expression lighting, bright and curious and wily, before his usually serious mouth gave way to a grin. He imagined his friend coaxing an unofficial mission brief out of him.

None of that happened. Anakin just glared at him from the chair. 

He'd gotten dressed at some point, which was good. Obi-Wan half worried he wouldn’t, but how cold he was must've outweighed his pride. His boots laces and belt were knotted messily and everything else was rumpled, but he'd done it, and well enough to almost look normal.

This wasn't normal, though. Nothing about it was. Not the location or the tension between them. Not how hatefully Anakin glowered, or how his gaze cut with an intensity usually reserved for enemies on the battlefield. 

Was that what they were now? Was that what they'd always been destined to be? He couldn't be sure, and even if he could, he didn't want to think about it. This was awful enough without dragging up old feelings. And they were old. More to the point, they were outmoded. The Anakin sitting in front of him wasn't the man he'd known before. Not the same one he’d fought beside and entrusted his life to. This was someone new, unpredictable, and dangerous. This was a stranger, and he couldn't afford to be sentimental.

"Bee will wake you a few hours early," he continued. He planted his boots and crossed his arms, hoping to look more commanding. "That should be enough time to--"

"Piece myself together?"

Those were the first coherent words the man had said to him. Obi-Wan winced, as much from the image as the tone. The thought of Anakin assembling like a droid made his sick. The man must've been counting on that, because his mouth twitched up at the reaction.

"It’s a little late to be feeling squeamish,” he sneered.

He drummed his fingers against the arm of his chair. They squealed and stuck, gumming the motion. It didn't dull the effect. Obi-Wan felt faint, and was aware he was losing ground here. Determined not to give up any more, he glossed over the dig. 

"Sleep while you can. We have a long ride, and won't be stopping until we get there." Obi-Wan bit his tongue to keep from letting the destination slip. It’d tell Anakin what planet they were on. He’d figure that out in the morning, but he didn't want to tempt the man into making an escape attempt during the night. “Do you have any questions?"

“Would you actually answer them if I did?”

It was strange, hearing Anakin talk to him like that. The acidic tone was familiar, but it’d never been used against him. He most often heard it when a mission went south and they were captured. Anakin had always used it then to rile up their enemies.

Obi-Wan had spent weeks wondering how their first real interaction would go. He hadn’t predicted this exact scenario, but he’d gotten the feeling right. Anakin’s resentment rolled out like a wave, threatening to barrel Obi-Wan over. It felt like maybe he’d bruise if he let this drag out much longer.

“Go to sleep,” he said again, then turned for the door.

Anakin didn’t taunt him on the way out, but he could feel the man staring. His eyes burned, laying a sting between Obi-Wan’s shoulders that he could feel even after the door had shut between them.

“How’d it go?” Lars asked, stepping out of the corner to retake his guard post.

The question was a formality. Obi-Wan knew that Lars had been listening.

“Fine,” he lied anyway. “Can you last a few more hours?” Lars nodded and Obi-Wan pawed his tired eyes. “Just let me sleep a little, then. I’ll be back later.”

“You don’t have to. I can ask Del to relieve me.”

He meant it kindly, a fact that Obi-Wan didn’t take for granted. Lars had been as furious as Kuli when he’d first arrived with Anakin. Over the last few weeks he’d softened, though. He wasn’t as supportive as Del was, but he also hadn’t dug in his heels like their de facto leader.

“Thank you,” Obi-Wan muttered, “but I’ve asked for too much already. Anakin is--” He chewed his cheek before settling on a word. “He’s my responsibility.”

“We’re a team, Kenobi. We share responsibility. But, come back around midnight if you want to be stubborn about it.”

Obi-Wan didn't want to be stubborn. He wanted to be a team. He'd never had trouble relying on his fellow Jedi before. So much had changed in the last month, though. The bedrock on which his trust once rested was cracked, and he felt unsure of the fractious remainder of what used to be his family.

"I won't be late," he promised.

Lars sighed almost sadly. "I wish you would be."

Those parting words rattled through Obi-Wan's head all the way back to his room. As he dressed down for a nap, his focus honed onto _wish_. He thought of everything he'd wished for himself and the other Jedi, and most painfully, of everything he'd wished for Anakin. 

Maybe that was his mistake: having been focused on the future. Maybe he’d been too obsessed with Anakin's potential to see him clearly, and it’d turned his harmless hopes to hindrances. 

It was a familiar criticism, though not of himself. More than once, it'd been leveled at Qui-Gon and his fascination with old Jedi prophecies. As his Padawan, Obi-Wan remembered disliking his master's obsession. He always dreaded being sent to the archives for that blasted holocron. The council didn’t like it either, and even Qui-Gon's friends thought it was silly. Obi-Wan always swore his own hobbies would be less frivolous. While he hadn't taken on his old Master's exact interests, however, he'd apparently absorbed the distracted spirit.

But he was doing it again: focusing on the wrong moment. He needed to drag himself out of this rut. Nothing either he or Anakin had done could be changed now. What happened each day was what mattered, and the most he could plan for was the next morning.

That was going to be trouble enough. He guessed it already, and by the tension thickening the air in the warehouse, he knew the others had too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've made it this far, thanks! Hope the update was good for everyone. It came pretty quickly because I was feeling really inspired. In the interest of being transparent, though, I'll just let everyone know that I'm also working on a multi-chap reylo fic at the moment, so I'll be toggling updates. Shouldn't mess my schedule up too badly, but just so everyone knows :)


	3. Level 4331, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains Huttese, translations for which will either appear when you hover (browser) or click (mobile). **If you hide Creator’s Style, in-text won’t appear at all, so please turn it on for this chapter even if you usually don't!** :)
> 
> Also, as a note on where we are in time: This chapter and next are going to be the last on Coruscant. I've got a lot of action-based plot I want to work into this story along with the developing relationship, and I'm excited that we're getting close!

Traveling Coruscant’s Underworld had never been safe. After the first few hundred levels things got dicey, and the pervasiveness of crime and mob boss rule only escalated the further down one burrowed. Several thousand levels below the bustle of government buildings, where the air tasted rotten and citizens spoke of the sun like a myth, it may as well have been a different planet. There was no connection between life there and on the surface.

Obi-Wan descended with his old master occasionally, but they’d never gone very far. Qui-Gon was careful. As a master himself, Obi-Wan had been more liberal. He'd often taken Anakin down as far as 2913, though he usually regretted it afterwards. The other man never blew their cover, but he was punchy and often got in the middle of blaster fights. Extrication was difficult, and they’d spend days bickering about it afterwards, but his Padawan always managed to convince him to go back. 

If his own methods had been liberal, then Anakin's could've only been called extreme. He often led young Ahsoka by wild example, and Obi-Wan shuddered go think how deep down he'd taken her. The answer could only have been 'too far'. They were both daring, and often fed one another’s impulses in a way more befitting siblings than fellow Jedi. As the girl had never been hurt, however, maybe it didn’t matter.

Past experiences aside, and despite the fact that the journey was always seedy, Obi-Wan had always been able to deal with it. That was because, if nothing else, descent was easy. All his trips, solo or otherwise, had run unimpeded. Apart from having to shake muggers, going down was never a problem.

That was apparently no longer the case. 

The morning of their move brought bad news. The comm frequencies Kuli spent the night spying on said the same: that all levels, down to 4000, were crawling with Imperial soldiers. Suspecting some Jedi were still on-world, Palpatine had doubled down on security. Where necessary, he'd even enlisted local crime lords, whose numbers were used to fill the gaps in his forces. All that made for roadblocks, ID checks, facial scans, and forced searches every couple of miles. The development was inconvenient, and not only for the delay. If their group was discovered, they wouldn’t even be able to use their primary weapons. Igniting their sabers to fend off a small party would alert the rest of any nearby soldiers. They’d be totally made and swarmed within minutes.

What mattered most, then, was not being stopped. 

It wouldn’t be easy, but it was doable. It’d require half of their group to ride ahead and blaze a new trail, calling last minute directions back through their secure commline. Obi-Wan didn’t like the idea, but in present circumstances, he couldn’t see a way around it.

Kuli volunteered to be part of the scouting team and asked either Lars or Del to ride with her. Whoever stayed behind could help escort Anakin and ensure he didn’t escape. If that were to happen-- but, it wouldn’t. Obi-Wan refused to even think about it. To lose the man on Coruscant would be to hand-deliver him to Palpatine, and Obi-Wan thought he might be prepared to die to prevent that.

He didn’t share the thought with the others. He didn’t want to worry them. They had enough to toggle. Kuli especially, as she and her partner would be going in blind.

“We’ve got to be smart,” she muttered, glaring down at a holomap that Lars had pulled up for her. It showed the route they’d planned to take and all plausible alternatives. “We won’t get a second chance, and I don’t like the idea of having to fight all the way down to 4331.”

Obi-Wan didn’t like it either. He didn’t even think it’d be possible. 

“We won’t have to,” he assured. “You’ll find a path.”

Kuli lifted her gaze to smile at him. The expression was tense but appreciative, almost warm. He returned it, and for a moment their month-long argument meant nothing. None of their differences did. They could work it out. He was sure. They just had to make it to 4331 alive.

The group spent the better part of an hour arguing over how to begin. In the end, however, perhaps spurred by Anakin joining them, they settled on a course and kicked into gear. Kuli and Lars would ride ahead, making for the dropzone that lead to the next level. Giving them a twenty minute buffer, Del, Obi-Wan, and Anakin would follow the new trail. They’d keep their commlinks ready, awaiting instruction and reroutes. Otherwise, they were to stick to the newly plotted course. Above all else, they were to keep moving. 

_How we get there doesn’t matter. We just have to._

Plan cemented, the group formed a perimeter around Anakin and made their way to the speeder docking bay. They didn’t have luggage or belongings to worry about. Everything they owned was on their backs or strapped to their belts. As such, all they had to do was power the bikes up and figure out how to keep Anakin astride one. 

The discussion didn’t seem to bother the man. He was more interested in his surroundings. The docking bay opened onto one of the level’s main squares, which bustled with life even at the early hour. The smell of street food, burnt caf, and speeder fuel all churned together, and Anakin recognized it instantly. His nostrils flared and eyes widened, and while his wardens fussed with their bikes, he edged near the entrance to confirm his suspicions.

“I don’t believe it,” he said, voice still froggy.

Kuli and Lars both tensed, but Del didn’t react. Obi-Wan took that to mean the two of them had talked already. That, or the older man was more concerned with his bike’s rattling engine.

“Don’t believe what?” Kuli asked, eyes narrowing as her attention darted suspiciously around the square.

“That you’re all this stupid.” He shook his head. “You could spit on the Senate Building from here.”

It was barely an exaggeration. They weren’t far enough from the surface to be comfortable. They’d been careful to talk around it, but they knew it, and hearing it said aloud was grating. 

Gritting her teeth, Kuli tightened a bolt on her bike. “Scared, boy?”

“No, but you should be.” Anakin’s voice was flat, matter-of-fact, and unsettling. “His soldiers will kill you and leave you to rot.”

“Yes.” How calmly Kuli said it broke Anakin’s focus. He turned to face her, brow furrowing when he saw her grin. It had spread, mean and playful. “They’ll kill us if we’re caught, but we aren’t going to be.”

She sounded more sure of that than the rest of the group felt. Obi-Wan wondered if that was genuine or just vibrato.

“We’re making it out of here,” she assured. “And you aren’t going to make that difficult.”

Her plan to prevent that turned out to be strapping Anakin bodily to Obi-Wan’s bike. Once he’d been made to straddle it, the man was secured around the waist and the restraints hidden under a spare robe. The hood of that was pulled up, covering his face to prevent a long range scan identifying him, and when Obi-Wan was seated, Anakin’s wrists were tied together in front of his hips. 

The close press of their position was awkward, though in another life, Obi-Wan wouldn’t have thought so. They’d often shared a speeder, trading off navigating and nestling. Obi-Wan had never been uncomfortable with that before. His friend’s heat and weight used to be comforts. Now, he couldn’t help but wonder if Anakin could unseat him like this. But, he supposed that’s what Del was for.

On his own bike and armed with a small blaster, the man would ride behind them. He’d stay close enough to ensure that even if Anakin broke free, he’d be stunned before he got away. It was all planned for-- the ride and their security--, and each plan came with its own set of contingencies. 

Obi-Wan could only pray that none of those contingencies were necessary. He didn’t know what he’d do if anything else went wrong.

* * *

The ride dragged on through the following morning and afternoon. Kuli and Lars scouting skills didn’t change the fact that there were hundreds of obstacles to work around. The time it took to circumnavigate added four hours to the trip, which was already going to be long to begin with.

Obi-Wan used the time to practice entering trance states. It wasn’t a technique he often used outside of battle. As a Padawan learner, developing the skill had been imperative. His old master swore by it, especially in a fight. Allowing oneself to fall completely into the Force removed the guesswork from tactically tricky situations. Deep trances were purely intuitive and allowed for levels of fluidity and defense that were unachievable otherwise. In such a state, the practitioner was in total harmony with the Force. It prevented battle fatigue, and allowed a fighter to anticipate the next dozen moves of an opponent. Done correctly, it made a Jedi untouchable.

There were benefits outside the battle, of course. In fact, those had been the original purpose. There was a time when a Jedi would rarely have seen combat. To Obi-Wan’s knowledge, the trance’s use in battle dated to within the last thousand years. Prior to that, it was only a spiritual aid, or-- in dire cases-- as a last ditch survival skill.

A trance could be used to subvert bodily needs or raise temperature tolerance. As he spent the bulk of his time on Coruscant, Obi-Wan rarely had need for that. There’d been a few occasions where it came in handy, though. His current predicament was turning out to be one. Using the trance, he suspended his need to sleep, eat, or drink, and to dull the growing, painful pinch in his bladder.

The hours passed without much notice. His trance only broke when his comm fired up. Otherwise, he was a pinprick of light in the wide, churning ocean that was the collective consciousness of Coruscant. He was aware of his body in only the vaguest sense. He kept tethered enough to maintain control of his speeder, and to be sure he didn’t miss a call from their leader, but greater part of his mind was floating through the void.

No. It wasn’t a void. It was dark and seemingly endless, but it was alive in the purest way. The co-mingled thoughts, voices, and energies of the planet’s more than a trillion residents pulsed, giving the nothingness a heartbeat. Feeling it made Obi-Wan feel small and insignificant. It was humbling to be so connected. In this way, in this moment, he felt at one with everything; even Anakin, who he sensed was asleep at his back.

Taking notice of the man uncovered a deep, internal well of grief, or perhaps only made him aware of the grief of others. Either was possible, and either way, it was frightfully dark. Gazing down into the swirling pool of emotion-- regret, anger, remorse, and fear-- Obi-Wan wondered how he’d never found this within himself before. This wasn’t the first time he’d entered such a state. 

It was, though, the first time since Anakin’s fall. That betrayal had cracked something fundamental inside of him. He knew that, though he hadn’t had time to figure out exactly what yet. Maybe this was what welled up to fill the breaks. In that way, it might be a similar process to scabbing over, and this pit would disappear again once he’d healed.

 _If_ he healed, and he hoped he would. He wanted to be whole again.

* * *

It was nearly twenty hours later when they reached the waypoint. Their speeders sputtered to a stop at the back of a multi-level: an abandoned vertical ghetto that, prior to being condemned, once connected eighty levels of the Underworld.

The Jedi council bought it under the table decades ago. During that time, they’d done just enough upkeep to prevent its collapse. The outside was a ruin of broken windows, grime, and graffiti. The inside wouldn’t be much better, but there were a dozen or so saferooms. A few apartments were preserved as was the level’s main kitchen, where all rations and medical supplies were stashed. There was also a communal washroom and communication center that operated on private Order channels.

Obi-Wan wanted to be relieved that they’d made it. He wanted to weep, stumble off his bike, and go inside. He wanted to sleep, chug a gallon of water, and piss himself dry.

Before he could do any of that, though, he had to dig Anakin out of a hole.

After being unstrapped from the bike, the man tumbled off it in a heap. It was clear that the journey had been strenuous. The extreme physical stress he’d undergone recently made him vulnerable. Despite his infection being clear, he was sweaty and feverish again, and the sight of him shivering on the duracrete made Obi-Wan’s chest ache.

He wasn’t going to hurt him. He’d have staked his life on that. When he approached the downed man, though-- maybe it was how quickly he moved. Maybe it was the pound of his boots, or a resurgent memory of Mustafar. Whatever it was, it triggered an animal response in Anakin.

Before he could fully close their distance, Obi-Wan stumbled back. Or, no. The motion was too violent, and there wasn’t anything for him to have tripped on. The duracrete was cracked but the surface was level, and anyway, Anakin’s hand was outstretched. The pose was shaky but unmistakable, as were the excess plumes of energy rolling out from his palm. 

The man had shoved him with the Force, a fact they seemed to realize simultaneously. He’d exerted his power. That was _possible_ again. He wasn’t too dazed to call upon it.

“Easy,” Obi-Wan muttered, the word both a placation and a warning.

He took a step forward, which turned out to be a mistake. Before his boot met the ground, Anakin thrust his hand out again, sending Obi-Wan tripping back several feet. He stumbled so wildly that he lost balance and hit ground, grunting on impact. Anakin huffed a laugh, eyeing his hand with new appreciation before scanning the line of Obi-Wan’s group. 

Obi-Wan knew that look. He was sizing up his opponents, weighing what options he could. He was thinking of trying to run, which was stupid. He couldn’t do it. He’d never make it to the main thoroughfare. 

He _could_ make enough of a scene to blow their cover, though.

Kuli and Lars must’ve come to the same conclusion, because to his back he heard them unclip their sabers. They widened their stances, ready to attack, but that couldn’t happen either. It’d be just as dangerous as Anakin running. They’d be outed as fugitives the moment their sabers ignited. Swarms of soldiers would bear down in less than a minute. There’d be no escape. At best, they’d all be slaughtered.

“Anakin,” he tried again, near pleading this time.

The man ignored him. He was only seconds from bolting. Obi-Wan could feel him coiling, ready to spring, and knew he couldn’t stop it.

Then Del’s deep, rumbling voice entered the fray.

""

It took Obi-Wan several seconds to register that what the man said were both words, and ones not spoken in Basic. Something else. Something he knew. Huttese, he decided. The slow drawl and heavy syllables were distinctive. Though he was fluent, it took a moment for him to feed the words back to himself. Anakin, however, snapped to attention immediately.

"" the older man continued. ""

Unconcerned with the fact that half his team had pulled weapons, Del pushed off his speeder to come between them and Anakin. He made his way to the man slowly, passing Obi-Wan without so much as looking down. His attention was fixed on the younger, eyes blinking deliberately as Hutt’s often did. Secondary communication; a display of sarcastic bemusement.

“” 

“ _Del_ ,” Kuli hissed, “Whatever you’re saying--”

The man waved a hand to silence her, and Kuli grit her teeth. Her jaw popped from the force of it, but if Del heard, he ignored it in favor of repeating his question. Anakin’s nose scrunched in suspicion. He didn’t strike out, though, and seconds later, he gave an answer.

“” 

Even if Obi-Wan hadn’t known Huttese, he thought that might’ve translated. If nothing else, how Anakin jabbed in his direction would’ve made the hostility undeniable.

Del laid a hand against his own chest, unconcerned with the other’s temper. “”

Anakin’s expression slacked, wariness crumbling to surprise. With a small shock of shame, Obi-Wan realized that must be because this was the first time since waking anyone had asked for his consent. That anyone might be interested in that wasn’t something Anakin had considered. But Del always made a point to be. He was thoughtful and clear, and as Anakin’s eyes scanned him for any hint of a trick, he remained relaxed.

Obi-Wan held his breath, watching the exchange anxiously. It felt like minutes before Anakin moved again. When he did, it was to turn from Del to take stock of the group a final time. He glossed over Obi-Wan to the two armed Jedi at his back. The younger man sucked his teeth, almost petulantly, then gave Del a nod. The man returned it and closed their distance, taking Anakin by the arm. Ignoring his grunt, he hauled him up and worked a shoulder underneath him. After adjusting his hold to bear most of Anakin’s weight, he guided him to the waypoint’s door. Lars and Kuli were at the side of it. Raising a brow at them, Del reverted to basic. 

"Put those away, if you’re done posturing." He jerked his chin to the sabers still in their hands. "Or do you want to blow our cover?"

Shaking clear of the oddity of the exchange, Lars complied, clipping the hilt back to his belt. The Togruta hesitated though, scowling at Del. She didn’t like not having understood the conversation.

"Enjoy your chat, Trico?"

Refusing to rise to taunt, Del only shrugged. 

"More than I'd have liked a firefight with Imperials. Now--” He hauled up Anakin, who hissed. “Let us in. He's heavy, and I'm old."

* * *

Anakin thought he might've slept more in the last month than he had in years. That didn't stop him from going to bed the moment his captors allowed it, though, because none of the sleep he'd been getting was good. It was all coma or drug-induced, which left him feeling lifeless. Now that he was on the mend, he needed natural rest. 

Thankfully, none of the Jedi opposed the idea. After what had almost gone down outside, they were probably sick of looking at him.

If it hadn't been for Del's intervention, Anakin didn't know what he'd have done. Nothing advisable, probably. He'd often been told that impulse control wasn't one of his strengths. He couldn't have fought all four of them and won. In the case of that Togruta woman, he didn't even think he could've defended himself. At the time, though, he'd been ready to try. 

Seeing Kenobi's boots stamp closer made him sick. He didn't think that was as overblown as the Jedi did. What did they expect? For him to lay down and let Kenobi _handle_ him? If that's what they wanted, they'd have to get used to pushback. Now that he’d recovered enough to keep the other at a distance, he didn't intend to let Obi-Wan touch him again. 

That man had done enough damage already. He wouldn’t be getting a second shot.

* * *

The abandoned segment of vertical ghetto was better than the warehouse in most ways. It had better rations, more supplies, and real beds. There were showers, heating units, and a functional communications array.

What they didn’t have was the freedom to go outside. Lars thought that might be the case, though.

He’d honestly been surprised that they were able to walk so freely higher up. Palpatine must’ve still been planning the sweep then. Now that he’d crunched the numbers, the Underworld was crawling with Imps. All it took was a peek out of the window to see a whole garrison trotting by. It was a good thing they had food, water, and working communicators. They were going to be pinned for a while.

Not permanently, of course. The structure of Coruscant was both its greatest weakness and strength. The same set of circumstances that made crime syndicates impossible to break also made the ecumenopolis impossible to occupy. It was too big and too factious to bring to heel. In the last several millennia of galactic warfare, the planet had only even been attacked a handful of times. It was risky to seize. The planet’s growing cultural significance, paired with the fact that maintaining military presence could bleed an empire dry in months, kept warlords at bay. What Palpatine was doing wasn’t sustainable. The emperor knew it. He was just hoping to smoke them out before having to recall.

It wouldn’t work. Lars wasn’t afraid of Palpatine. That snake might’ve broken their root and taken their temple, but there were at least still four of them left. That was enough. It had to be, at least for the time being. He hoped that over the next few weeks, Kuli’s contacts turned up leads.

_And if they don’t? If there’s no one else left to find?_

He buried the thought. It wasn’t helpful.

* * *

"I want you to think carefully before you speak." Kuli's voice was low and controlled, but the eddies in the Force around her were turbulent. "Can you do that, boy?"

Anakin frowned. He didn’t like that she called him that, but gave a half nod anyway. He sensed that refusing would only make the Togruta more angry. And she _was_ angry, if not outwardly. At first glance, she actually appeared calm. She was sitting casually in an old metal chair, legs crossed at the knees with her hands folded over them. The position reminded him of his instructors at the temple. They all sat like that, poised politely and so still. But Kuli’s stillness was an illusion. The air around her swam with disgust. He thought she might hate him more than anyone else on her team did.

He was surprised that it’d taken her so long to get him alone. Anakin suspected he hadn’t been scraped up on Mustafar out of charity. The remaining Jedi wanted something, though they hadn’t taken it yet. That was understandable in some sense. Their previous location wasn’t secure. This one, however, seemed safe enough, and the group had already been there for a week. 

He’d spent most of that time recuperating, and was only just starting to feel human again. He didn’t think that’s what the Togruta was waiting for, though. His health seemed less than insignificant to her. Likely she’d just been too busy. A lot of work went into preparing stake outs. Between settling in and establishing off-world communications, she’d probably only just now found time for him.

“Good,” she said, more to herself than anyone else in the room.

It wasn’t a large audience: just herself, Anakin, and Lars. It was him who’d come to collect for this. He’d knocked at Obi-Wan’s suite, where Anakin was sequestered in an off room, and asked to borrow him _on Kuli’s orders_. Kenobi handed him off, but hadn’t looked happy about it. Then again, he hadn’t looked happy about anything recently. Anakin hadn’t thought much of it, but now that he was alone with Kuli and her guardsman, he revisited Kenobi's anxieties. Not that there was anything he could do about it. The way back was blocked. Lars was guarding it with two ignited sabers.

Kuli pushed herself out of the chair. The old thing whined, rivalling the noise of his legs. She didn't approach, though. She planted her feet and wove her fingers against her stomach. Her hands were small like the rest of her, but he wasn’t fooled. Her reputation preceded her. 

Anakin and Kuli had never formally met. The Jedi were expansive and spent most of their time scattered. Kuli, especially, was always on the move. She’d once been the head of a highly specialized strike team. Highly controversial as well, as he remembered. The use of Force abilities in unsanctioned, _enhanced interrogations_ landed her in hot water a few years back. 

“I don’t think,” the woman began, “that I’ve made my feelings unclear. You must be wondering why I allowed you to be kept.”

He had a guess, but didn’t say it. She didn't strike him as someone interested in input. 

“Obi-Wan insisted you could be useful.” She shrugged, the motion disturbing her lekku. “He was only saying what he thought I wanted to hear. That doesn’t make him wrong, though. After all, you were close to Palpatine, weren’t you?”

The past tense made his stomach flip. It was an unwelcome reminder of something he’d already decided: that his master wasn’t looking for him, and if Palpatine happened to find him, he wouldn't get a warm welcome. His defeat and capture were undeniable failures, and Anakin had learned that Sith dealt with that mercilessly.

His discomfort must’ve shown, because the Togruta smiled. The expression was thin and chilly.

“I understand." The teasing coo proved that she didn’t. “You want to protect your master. It’s too bad the feeling isn’t mutual. He abandoned you at the earliest convenience, but that isn't the point."

"So what is?"

Lars shifted uncomfortably behind him, but Kuli barely registered the snip.

"You have information. I know you do, and whatever that old man told you, you’re going to tell me.”

Of course that's what this was. He could’ve laughed. Did they think Palpatine's lips were that loose? The Emperor hadn’t confided more than the bare minimum, though he’d promised to scale up Anakin's clearance once the Jedi were neutralized. Before that, though, he was too much of a liability. Probably for this exact disaster scenario.

"Kenobi made a mistake, or maybe he just lied. The Emperor only talks strategy with senior advisers."

Kuli hummed and uncrossed her arms to brace her hips. 

"I thought you might say that, and suggest you reconsider. This will be over sooner if you cooperate.” She tongued the point of one tooth, slicking it with spit. “It’ll also be less distressing for Obi-Wan. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

His jaw clenched, the muscle jumping violently. He understood, and his pulse ticked up. He'd read the records of Kuli’s hearing; he knew her tactics, and wasn't looking forward to having his mind picked over. He didn’t know what she’d look for or what she’d find, or what filthy way she’d twist the knife into weak spots. And she’d find those, no question. He wasn’t strong enough to guard them. She was going to flay him, and there wasn’t anything he could do about it. He wasn’t well enough to resist for very long. He’d try of course, but she’d wear him down quickly. He couldn’t even give into cowardice and try to run. Lars was determined to detain him. Anakin was trapped.

A cold, prickling sweat began to form on his nape. He swallowed hard, resisting the urge to wipe it away. It wouldn’t help. She’d probably already scented his anxiety. Togruta had once been apex predators, and some senses never dulled.

"You're wasting your time."

"Maybe, but I’ve got a lot of that. More than you’ve got of fight, anyway.” She finally took a step forward. Her boots cracked, and his heart stuttered. “In any case, you aren’t leaving until I’m satisfied.”

* * *

Something was wrong. Obi-Wan could feel it. Lars and Anakin had been gone too long. Something in his gut, small and panicked and untrusting--

But no. Kuli wouldn’t. Would she?

No, of course not. He dishonored her by even thinking about it. Her last hearing had been almost six years ago, and at the end she’d been contrite enough to convince even Yoda. The Togruta had learned and grown in that time. She’d made mistakes, but she wasn’t defined by them. She hadn’t been her best recently, of course, but none of them had.

He clung to that hope as two hours dragged to three. At hour four, he began rearranging the sparse suite, too anxious to sit for a minute longer. He shifted the ancient furniture, adjusted the lighting, and hand wiped away dust, not caring about the stains. He’d only just begun to worry that he was running out of ways to fidget when his door swung open. Obi-Wan sighed, relaxing fractionally and wiping his gloves before turning.

“You should’ve commed,” he muttered. “Honestly, Lars, you know I--”

Then he stopped short, because it wasn’t Lars. It was Kuli, and Anakin was-- stars, what was _wrong_ with him? He was fine earlier, but now he hardly seemed able to stand. He was draped like a doll over her shoulders. He dwarfed her, but she had no trouble carrying him. She dragged him along, allowing his feet to trip beside her. He kept up, but only barely, and groaned all the way. Obi-Wan scanned for injuries but couldn’t find any. The man was sweating, face drawn in pain, and looked ill, but he wasn’t bleeding or bruised anywhere visible.

“What happened?” 

The words came out as breath. He hated the sound. Not as much, though, as he hated Kuli's sneer. It contorted her face and when she spoke, darkening her words.

“I questioned. He resisted.” The woman rolled her charge off of her shoulders. She didn’t guide his fall, and he landed hard on his elbows and knees. "Or I thought he did, anyway. Turns out, he's just useless. Your boy wasn’t as cozy with Palpatine as you thought, but I couldn’t be sure without getting creative."

 _Creative_. The word was sour and mean. Obi-Wan clenched his fists so hard that his gloves creaked.

"I must be missing something," he said, teeth clenched. "Because as I recall, you swore off those tactics. You agreed with the council that--"

"The council is disbanded.” She spat the words, plainly angry at having her trial brought up. “Its members are dead, dying, and scattered. Its opinion either way is irrelevant.”

“How can you say that? Their ruling--”

“Came before this mongrel’s master made his move.” 

He bristled at the interruption and how she snarled while she delivered it. She bared her sharpened teeth like she would at an enemy. It stung to see, but he resisted the urge to drop the subject. She vowed not to do this again, and Anakin’s condition made it all the more unethical. He was unwell, unarmed, and at their mercy. Her personal feelings didn’t supercede that.

“Our situation might’ve changed, but the rules of engagement didn’t.”

She barked a laugh so cold that Obi-Wan flinched. 

“Don’t be stupid,” she hissed. “Everything has changed, and I won’t allow what’s left of us to be barreled over just because you’re feeling squeamish.”

He thought back to the night nearly two weeks ago when Anakin spat that same word. Maybe they all thought that about him, and maybe it was true. If what Kuli proposed was the alternative, however, he refused to be ashamed of that.

“Where does this stop, then? So, you felt this was justified.” He jerked his chin towards the man trembling and groaning at her heels. “Maybe the others would agree. I don’t know, and I don’t care.” 

He took a quavery breath, willing his pulse to tamp down. He could hear the thump of it deep in his ear. He felt flushed, and his fingers were starting to go numb from how hard he’d balled his fists. 

“What I want to know,” he continued, throat tightening viciously around the words, “is what comes next. Is this the line, or are you breaking out your knives next time? What, exactly, are you willing to do?”

“ _Anything_!” she shrieked. “To anyone I have to!”

The shrill, pitching sound buffeted the space between them so violently that Obi-Wan finally fell back. He took half a step on impulse before he stopped himself, but his slack jaw was impossible to correct. He felt his mouth hanging open, knew his eyes were round and wet. He couldn’t do anything about that, though. The force of her scream and what she’d said made him dizzy. He hadn’t known, hadn’t realized-- but then, why should he have? He couldn’t even sniff it out in the man who’d depended on him. How could he have hoped to notice it in her?

“Do you hear yourself?” he managed after a moment. “Don’t you know what you’re saying?”

Realization punched the air from Kuli. Her breath, already ragged, snagged something sharp. She grunted, large eyes glistening and dilated, and covered her mouth with one hand. Her nostrils flared on the exhale, blowing wide. She shook her head, maybe in answer or maybe just reflex. 

“I didn’t mean that.” Her voice was airy, cut with shame. She sounded like a little girl. “I didn’t,” she repeated.

But she had. Obi-Wan had felt the unbreakable chain of her conviction. It left a heavy, oily stain in the Force around her. It darkened her energy, her mood, and her spirit. It destabilized her, and it made him afraid.

“Go. Please.”

She obeyed almost immediately, the words seeming to kick-start her. She didn’t stay to argue any further or plead her case. Obi-Wan almost wished she would. He knew how to persuade and reason with her, but he didn’t know what to do with this. Her overspill of turbulence dirtied the floor between them, and how she’d lashed out, then just turned and ran-- it reminded him of Anakin, stoking a deep, abiding helplessness. 

He couldn’t help him, or her, or anyone.

The thought returned his attention to the man. By then, he was on his feet. At some point during the argument he’d begun clawing up the wall, and now leaned against it, eyes screwed shut. He didn’t look stable. His legs shook, his breathing was labored, and he was beaded all over with sweat. He looked exhausted, and Obi-Wan didn’t doubt he’d spent all of the energy he’d only just recovered fighting off Kuli’s intrusion. He wondered for how many days Anakin would have to sleep this time. He wondered how long the next recovery could even last.

“I didn’t know,” he swore. “I didn’t think she would.”

The man didn’t look at him, or even respond.

He stumbled to the small room he’d been assigned and shut the door. When he heard it lock, Obi-Wan bit through his lip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I love these characters," I say, prolonging their suffering at every moment


	4. Level 4331, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! This is our last chapter on Coruscant. It’s a bridge between arcs, which are always tricky in my opinion. We had to (somewhat) resolve some issues and set up what’s coming next, so hopefully y’all like it :) Thanks for reading!

The next two months weren't exactly peaceful, but Anakin at least wasn't bothered. His interrogation and the fight it caused between Kenobi and Kuli established a new equilibrium. Satisfied she'd gotten all she could out of him, the Togruta left him alone. He hardly ever saw her except for passes in the hall. When that happened, she very pointedly _didn't_ look at him. 

After he'd recovered-- hopefully for the last time-- Anakin forced himself to establish a routine. He woke early to have the washroom to himself and spent each morning relearning how to bathe and shave with his prosthetics. When he was done, he returned to his small room in Kenobi's suite to meditate. The tiny window high on the wall let in light from the duracrete courtyard; when it was bright enough to make prisms, he snuck out again to start the day. 

If he was feeling social, he'd visit the workshop Del had set up. It was stocked with materials, tools, and several datapads full of schematics. Some were for ships and speeders, but most were for prosthetics. Anakin could spend hours there, alternating between tinkering and talking mechanics. 

If he didn't feel like socializing, he'd spend his day exploring as far into the ruined ghetto as he was allowed. Admittedly, that wasn't deep. Most of the building was collapsing, and there were strict rules in place for how far he could wander. Those chafed, but he didn't test them. The only privilege he had to revoke were his limbs, and he didn't like the idea of losing those. So he stuck to shallow sweeps, which were still useful. They allowed him to test the limits of his prosthetics and plan future mods, and work out some of the tension starting to mount from being trapped inside. 

Exempting Del Trico, who he needed-- he wasn't allowed to use tools unsupervised-- Anakin spent as much time alone as he could. That was easy for the most part. Even with the restrictions, there was a lot of ground to cover in the hideout. If he wasn't careful, he could spend a full day roaming. Not that anyone minded. He wasn't missed or interrupted. So long as he stayed in bounds, Kuli and Lars were happy to avoid him. Kenobi was more difficult, though. 

They shared a suite, and Anakin could only be out of it for so long. He needed to eat, sleep, and meditate, which meant going back. The first two weeks after his interrogation, Anakin compromised by avoiding it's common area. He holed up in his room whenever he couldn't go out, but that had gotten old fast. The room was empty, cramped, and dark. There wasn't anything to read or even look at. It was boring to the point of distraction, and he eventually gave up. 

After that, he resigned himself to spending a few hours each night in the common room, usually in the chair closest to his door. When he returned for the day, from whatever it was he did, Obi-Wan took the couch on the opposite wall. Spreading out, he reviewed what must’ve been documents on his datapad. Having nothing better to do himself, Anakin watched.

They didn't talk, and hadn’t since the interrogation. It wasn't really intentional. If Kenobi said something, he'd probably answer. But Anakin wasn't interested in starting a conversation. He couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't start a fight. While that might’ve been nice-- he’d always liked squaring up with Obi-Wan-- he couldn’t afford to make trouble just now. His position was too delicate, and he was acutely aware of how little control he had over his own life. 

He'd made peace with the fact that the Emperor wasn't coming. Palpatine either thought he was dead or unworthy of rescue. Both possibilities stung. To think, he'd been stupid enough to believe the man valued him. In the end, Sidious proved as dismissive as the Jedi. Anakin was just as worthless to him as he'd ever been to the Council. 

Whether he lived or died now was up to his captors. He could try running, but he didn't like his odds. The Jedi always seemed to know where he was. Though they mostly ignored him, he could always _feel_ their presence. Their collective awareness was heavy, hot, and suffocating. He didn't think there was a moment during the day that their minds weren't on him. He could feel the cutting edge of it when he bathed, dressed, or walked the halls, and it intensified any time he looked out a window. If he actually made a break, they'd be on him in seconds, and he'd be dead. 

He was trapped, and he couldn't stand it.

* * *

Imperial presence on the level scaled down slowly over the weeks. Eventually, when it seemed most soldiers had been recalled, the group was free to leave the building. Not all at once, of course. They had to be careful. There were bounties on all Jedi heads. If they wanted to stay alive on Coruscant, they had to be stealthy. So, they took turns going out.

Every few days on rotation, Obi-Wan, Del, and Lars did recon. They covered ground in rings, testing the level's climate and keeping their ears open for news. They searched for spies, and when they could, snuck to the nearby docking bay to check on their stored escape ships. Four small vessels had been left there years ago, and while the Council used to pay for security, that was no guarantee. Plika Phan, the shipyard’s warden, had never been generous. With payments no longer being wired, Obi-Wan wasn't surprised to find security had lapsed. Despite that, however, the vessels were intact. None of their panels or landing gear were missing. Some of the extremities were dented and weather damaged, but that was cosmetic. It wouldn’t prevent a take off.

 _That’s lucky_ , Del had said. _Real lucky, actually._

And he was right. The ships could’ve been sold for scrap. They still might be, the next time one of them went to check. Their group was betting against time.

That'd been the case ever since Palpatine executed Order 66, and the longer they stayed on Coruscant, the less lucky they were going to get. Even with the bulk of the troops recalled, there was only so long they could avoid detection. The Jedi bounty was steep, and the Underworld had always been full of enterprising hunters. Even if it hadn't been, the city was Palpatine's domain now. The man couldn't maintain a constant sweep, but he could always remount it. In a week or a month; whenever he wanted, and in the meantime use his powers to feel them out.

That last was what concerned Obi-Wan the most. Late at night when he couldn’t sleep, he imagined it: Palpatine’s power crawling through the streets in filthy tendrils, seeking a familiar signature. His own or Anakin’s would be unmistakable. During his time as Chancellor, Palpatine had spent a lot of time with them. If he felt them on-world, even for a moment--

Obi-Wan shuddered. That couldn’t happen. They needed to move.

They couldn’t do that, though, until Kuli’s work amounted to something. Early on in their stay, she’d appointed herself communications handler. She spent most of every day locked in the control room toggling commlines, decoding intel, and translating transmissions. As Obi-Wan understood, a wealth of data was pouring in. Whether any of it could be useful was another matter.

He tried not to be too critical of her work, but that grew more difficult the longer it took to get results. It didn't help that they hadn’t spoken since their fight over Anakin’s interrogation, and that Obi-Wan was certain he was being avoided. The Togruta never came to the kitchen or common areas when he was there, and she refused to take his recon reports herself. Del and Lars had to act as intermediaries. It was insulting.

“Why?” Del asked, when he brought it up.

The two were in his workshop. It was late, and the light that usually came from the courtyard was gone. A candledroid the older man had rebuilt was hovering between them, and the incandescence it gave was soft. It was intimate, friendly light, and managed to soothe Obi-Wan’s nerves. Basking in it now, he felt silly.

“I don’t know,” he muttered.

“You do, or you wouldn’t have brought it up.”

Obi-Wan ceded the point. The man was right, as usual. If he weren’t so gracious, the fact might’ve been annoying. It was impossible to be annoyed with Del, though. The older man had the presence of a grandfather. He breathed slow and heavily, sat with his arms open. His dark skin was wrinkled, and his wide mouth bracketed by deep laugh lines. His hair, kept in locks, had gone gray and wiry. Seeing him at rest, it was impossible to ignore just how old he'd gotten.

Obi-Wan allowed his weight to settle. He was sitting on Del’s workbench, hands braced behind him and legs dangling over the edge. He kicked them, letting his heels bounce against the body of it.

“I’m not the one in the wrong,” he began, allowing the thought to stitch. “ _She_ broke protocol, not me. I haven't done anything. She's the one who lied and--”

“Hurt you?”

His brow creased. No, of course that wasn't it.

“It’s not about me. It’s about what was done to Anakin.”

“Which clearly hasn’t affected you at all.”

Obi-Wan didn’t know how to respond, which often seemed to be the way talks with Del went. The man’s mind ran tight circles, reaching conversational conclusions before Obi-Wan even realized what direction they were headed. 

“A good master,” Del continued, “honors their Padawan's devotion by fiercely guarding their life. Many value it more than their own."

 _Ah_. "Anakin hasn't been my Padawan in years."

"But you stayed close, and I don't think you ever stopped feeling responsible for him."

 _Close_ wasn’t the word for what he and Anakin had been. Brothers was more accurate, or symbiotic. They'd lost, won, and experienced so much as a team that sometimes it felt like they were growing as one. As master and Padawan, such closeness had been essential. It kept them safe, and ensured deep learning. As fellow Knights, it fostered a bond that made them an excellent command unit. 

As individuals, it made them unbreakable. Or so he'd thought.

"You think my judgement is clouded," Obi-Wan guessed.

"I think you love him." 

That was just a kinder way of saying the same thing. Obi-Wan didn't have time to point it out, though. As soon as he said it, Del settled deeper into his chair. Leaning his head against the back, he pursed his lips and closed his eyes like an instructor gathering themselves for a lecture. On instinct, Obi-Wan straightened. He drew his legs on to the table and crossed them, resting his palms on his knees. 

"Funny thing, hurt," Del said, when he spoke again. Obi-Wan couldn't guess what caused the redirect. "It can make a person do all sorts of uncharacteristic things.” He popped his lips. “Do you think Anakin was hurt when he pledged to Sidious?" 

He didn't know. They hadn't talked about it.

"It's possible."

Del nodded, tapping his temple. 

“I sense that the pain and fear of loss made him vulnerable. His mind wasn't right, and still isn't. Can you feel it?" He waited for Obi-Wan to hum in assent. "I sense that Kuli's in a similar place just now.”

Obi-Wan frowned. "That shouldn't excuse her."

"It doesn't.” The man shrugged. “But, you should talk to her anyway."

"Why?"

"Because it's been months, and you know this isn't helping."

Obi-Wan gnawed his cheek. It was true. His and Kuli’s stalemate was turning out to be more than awkward. The base's atmosphere was tense, coiling tight in apprehension, and that was starting to affect the group. They couldn’t hold joint meetings, talk freely, or even relax. Lars had always favored Kuli, but was doubling down. Del was neutral, but even he was getting tired of them. If they didn’t figure something out, there was likely to be a schism.

"I don’t want to argue--"

“But you’re going to.”

Obi-Wan's frown deepened. He felt like a boy whose temper was being managed.

"I just don't see what it would change."

"It’s not about change. It's about moving forward. You both need to do that to heal." Del paused, tongue glossing over his teeth as he considered. "This hasn't been easy for her, either. She lost her Padawan."

Obi-Wan's expression slacked.

"When the order came through?" Del nodded, and he felt a sharp pang of sympathy. "I didn't even know she had one."

"Did you ask?"

It was a gentle admonition, but he still ducked his head. He hadn't even thought to ask, but he shouldn't have had to. That sort of pain, fresh as it was, should’ve been easy to identify. Loss of one's Padawan was a deep, eclipsing sadness. He'd been too tangled up in his own feelings to sense anyone else's, though. Del seemed to know that, but did him the favor of not rubbing his nose in it. Instead, he dragged his chair closer to where Obi-Wan sat. The legs scrapped the floor, catching a lip of broken duracrete. It kicked up dust, but the man kept moving. When he was between the other's knees, he clicked his tongue for attention. Obi-Wan lifted his gaze to find the older man staring up at him. His head was tilted back, locks falling over his shoulders.

"She's not a god," he said, voice gentler than before. “None of us are. All we can do is try, but you know that isn't easy. Sore hearts get everyone in trouble. Even your old master, rest his soul, struggled with his." 

Obi-Wan knew this story. After the death of Master Tahl, whom Qui-Gon had been in love with, he'd nearly fallen. Consumed by darkness, rage, and grief, he sought out her killer for revenge. He would've exacted it hideously without intervention.

"I know," he sighed, at once petulant and resigned. "But, why does it always have to me?"

Why could no one else ever speak first or bear the impact? He felt as though he'd done nothing but make concessions since their group formed.

"There’s no shame in being the bigger man, Obi." Del patted the back of his hand. "It might even set an example. Kuli's not the only one who's been avoiding you." 

Obi-Wan snorted. No, she wasn't.

But it'd take more than that to make Anakin talk.

* * *

When he dreamed at all, Anakin dreamed of Padme. Sometimes they were on missions, or walking the halls of the Senate Building. Sometimes they were in her apartment on Coruscant's surface, or on Naboo pretending they weren't anything but husband and wife. They drank wine and ate food he couldn't taste until the scene shifted, dumping them out onto a battlefield. They fought their way through hordes of clankers-- Padme with her blaster, him with his saber. And when that was over, their sweat slick bodies fell into bed.

His hands ghosted over the complex ties and buckles that kept the costume she was wearing in place. They fell away like nothing, like they never had when they really slept together. Being hard made him clumsy, and she always had to help. Not here, though. In dreams, knots came undone before he touched them, allowing her gown to fall away from her tiny frame. Then he could crawl over her, cover every stretch of skin with his own. She was so small. How wasn’t he crushing her?

_You won't hurt me, Ani._

He never did. Her body was yielding and flexible. He could thrust into her hard enough to make his hips ache, but she never gave up anything but throaty moans and sweat. The brine of it mixed with his own, sticking to his mouth as he kissed down her belly. He lapped at the muscles there: taut and trembling, all her strength washed over with need. When he finally parted her thighs, he could almost smell her. 

When he woke up, he'd be miserable and cold.

“You want me to be grateful,” he said one night.

Kenobi’s attention snapped up from the datapad he’d been scanning. It was some sort of document the Togruta put together. She’d been wrangling leads and hounding potential allies for months. It had to be close to paying off by now.

He didn't know what it'd mean for him, but it didn’t matter. Anakin couldn’t do anything about it either way. He didn’t have control over much, and it felt like gaining ground just to have caught the other man off guard. 

At the sound of his voice, Obi-Wan’s pinched expression smoothed. His brow lifted and mouth parted, eyes blinking owlishly. The loose fall of his bangs caught in his lashes. If it weren’t for the beard, he’d look like a teenager caught out of bed.

Anakin knew the expression, and he used to think it was charming. Everything about Kenobi used to charm him. Dazzling was one of the man’s passive abilities. He wasn’t showy, but he had an open, honest face and friendly mouth that made him impossible to look away from. On old missions, whenever they needed a prisoner's cooperation, it was always easiest to let Obi-Wan ask for it. He rarely had to dip into their minds. He just had to smile and adopt that soft, playful tone. Anakin didn’t know if it was intentional or just lucky.

“Maybe I should be,” he continued, when it was clear Obi-Wan wouldn't respond. “I probably would’ve burned to death if you left me.”

His throat tightened as he tried to imagine that. He’d gotten several splatter burns after losing their fight. The molten river bubbled and spat, covering him in a rain that brought a pain he’d never thought possible. It burned away clothes, skin, and tissue, deep down into the muscle. The stumps of his thighs and lower back felt like they were melting, and he’d screamed. Or maybe he hadn’t. He remembered his mouth was open, but the air was so burning and dry. He couldn’t catch his breath or even think. Everything was red.

The burns were mostly healed when he came out of the coma, but they still caused discomfort. They probably always would. They left deep craters in the meat of his thighs and ass, and the skin that grew back was nerve damaged. The scars made it hurt to sit for too long, and he had to sleep on his stomach. Sometimes it was more than he could stand to feel clothes brush them. The coarse fabrics caught and irritated. Meditation helped, and he was getting used to regulating spikes of pain. When he needed to, he could redirect some of his power to dull it.

He couldn’t imagine having to do that for his entire body. Would it even be possible? Probably not. He wouldn’t have the concentration. The total trauma would've overwhelmed him, and he’d have probably died of shock or infection before figuring it out. 

Obi-Wan's tongue peaked out and his eyes narrowed. He was thinking. Anakin could feel it. His thoughts troubled the room. His old master’s mind wasn’t as quiet as it used to be.

Anakin let out a breath and fell back in his chair. His back smacked against the slats and when they creaked, he spread his hands.

“Well?” he prompted. “Did I guess right?”

Kenobi’s eyes followed one of his prosthetics. Anakin couldn’t blame him. They got uglier every day. He’d replaced almost every panel of the arms and legs over the last few months. None of the pieces matched. Each limb was a mix of metals that varied wildly in color and type. It made him look like a scrapper droid, but he didn’t mind. At least now the limbs were functional. The wrist and ankle joints were supple, and the knees no longer released at random. The fingers were almost perfect too, despite needing the most upkeep.

“It’s not my place to tell you how to feel.”

Anakin scoffed. He should’ve expected that. Typical Jedi. Or at least, typical Obi-Wan.

“Isn’t it?” He caught one finger under his thumb, trying to pop it on instinct. Nothing happened. “That’s never stopped you before.”

Kenobi's expression darkened. Brow pinching, he looked back to his datapad. Not to disengage, though: to lock the screen and tossed it aside.

“I should’ve guessed you only wanted to argue.”

“Who’s arguing?” Anakin spread his hands again, uncomfortably aware of the fact that he’d picked the habit up from Palpatine. “I’m just trying to figure out what’s expected of me, General.”

He didn’t know what made him call Kenobi that. The man wasn’t a General anymore. The Republic’s army had broken and reappropriated. They were both just rats in a hole now.

The title threw the man, and for a moment his frustration dipped back into confusion. But then it remounted, and thinking he was being mocked, he leveled a scowl across the room. It was a strange expression that Anakin had to resist shrinking from. Obi-Wan had always been the type to be disappointed rather than angry. That made his infrequent outbursts all the more effective. He didn’t have an outburst, though. Whatever he was feeling, he reigned in back in. Displeasure aside, he even recentered around the talk. He scooted to the edge of his couch, uncrossing his legs to plant on the dirty floor. 

“What is this?” His voice was tight, and Anakin felt a deep uneasiness threading through it. “Are we speaking?”

He canted his head. “Obviously.”

“You know what I mean,” the other hissed, then pinched the bridge of his nose. “Be serious. Please.”

Anakin took his time answering, enjoying the nerves radiating from Obi-Wan. He let them roil, stoking the man’s anxiety. It didn’t correct their imbalance, but it felt good to be the calm one for once.

"We could be," he said finally.

Kenobi didn't miss the qualifier. "If?"

"If there's something important to say."

He wasn't interested in small talk. He and Kenobi weren't friends, and maybe they never had been. Maybe he'd always just been a tool. Either way, that relationship was over. He didn't owe Obi-Wan anything anymore, but he had to admit, life would be easier if he wasn't avoiding him. He’d have a better handle on current events if he and Kenobi stopped stonewalling. He spoke to Del, of course, but that was mostly about mechanics. The elder always steered their conversations away from group politics. If he wanted a chance to brace for the next impact, he'd have to hear Obi-Wan out at some point. 

It wasn’t a comfortable admission. He didn’t like how reliant he was on Kenobi. The man kept him bedded, fed, and watered; he gave him clothes and arranged for prosthetics. And now this: having to swallow what was left of his pride in the hopes of dragging himself out of the dark. He couldn’t stand not knowing how long they had left here or where they were going. 

After what felt like several minutes, Kenobi broke his considering silence. Sighing, he unpinched the bridge of his nose. His eyes opened and his attention returned to Anakin, expression unreadable.

“I understand. I--” 

He trailed off, words catching in his throat. He bit his tongue, forcing down whatever he’d been about to say. Anakin tried to chase it, reaching out through the Force for some impression, but it was gone and the man was speaking over it. 

“You’ve been...relatively cooperative. I feel I should thank you for that.”

Anakin supposed he meant that he hadn’t tried to attack again or run. Never mind that he didn't have anywhere to go.

“Maybe you shouldn’t,” he drawled. “Maybe a reliable alternative just hasn’t presented itself.”

Kenobi hands, which had knotted together in his lap, twisted uncomfortably at that. Anakin watched them work, feeling more like himself again. Being backed into a corner was more tolerable when he could snip.

“Maybe,” Obi-Wan echoed. “Either way, I don’t want to make this any more uncomfortable than I have to.”

That was an interesting choice of phrase, but Anakin didn’t comment. It was late, and he didn’t want to argue. He’d just wanted to get this out of the way. He couldn’t put off talking to Kenobi indefinitely. It was getting inconvenient, and he was tired of being clueless. They could fight later; in fact, he was certain they would. 

He had a whole nest of bones to pick, but those could wait a little longer.

* * *

Del hadn’t meant to spy. Really. He couldn’t have planned it. Despite having encouraged Obi-Wan to meet with Kuli, he hadn’t expected it to happen soon. The man was still raw, and he’d expected it to take another fortnight for him to come around. So, when Del left his workshop to look for Skywalker, he couldn’t have known that passing the control room would mean running into both Kenobi and Prim.

He liked to think that said something about his mediation skills.

He only went that way initially because Anakin had mentioned finding an emergency hatch on that hall earlier in the week. While he and Del coaxed a kink out of his ankle joint, Skywalker mused about where he thought it might lead. An old storage room was his first guess, or a blocked off turbolift, or maybe it was an entrance to one of the collapsed halls. Absorbed in tinkering, Del was only half listening when he told the boy to forget about it.

_Kuli already told you where you could go._

Skywalker dropped it, and he himself had forgotten it until that morning when he couldn't find the boy anywhere. He’d found an ancient scan of a Pre-Republic era sublight engine, and wanted to show the blueprint to Anakin. Skywalker had an eye for schematics, and Del had learned early on in their time at the base that he could discuss them for hours. His lifelong interest in mechanics made him a good shop partner, even when he and Del weren’t working on something. Del liked to reserve a few hours each week to get the boy talking. He had interesting thoughts on method and theory.. 

In short, Anakin Skywalker had grown on him, and he’d gotten used to having him on hand.

That day, though, he couldn’t find him. He could feel his energy snaking determinedly through the building, and could tell by its strength that he was more or less in bounds. Where he was specifically, however, was impossible to say. Resigned to combing the halls-- he really did _want_ to talk to him--, Del took his datapad and began making rounds. After several failed laps around Anakin’s most common routes, his mind turned to that emergency hatch. 

He groaned at the thought, hoping that Skywalker hadn’t actually gone through. It wasn’t safe. The Council had only maintained a central section of the building, and anything outside of that was gunning to collapse. He didn’t like the idea of having to hunt the boy through wreckage. If he had to, though-- well. Nothing for it. 

Altering his course, Del cut north. He intended to go straight to the hatch to investigate. To do that, however, he had to pass by the control room. That usually wouldn’t be a problem. Kuli locked herself up tight in it every morning, and nothing short of a detonation could make her come out. 

Today, however, seemed to be an exception all around. The control room’s door was open, which was the first hint that something was going on. Whether she was coming or going, Kuli always shut it behind her. She liked her privacy, which Del understood. Her and Kenobi’s fall out had made her skittish, and she couldn’t afford distractions anyway. Toggling commlines-- their own and hacked Imperial ones-- and fielding messages required her full concentration. Most days, she had thousands of lines of intel to unscramble before bed. It was thankless work, and if it was his, Del wouldn’t want to be bothered either.

At first, he assumed that she’d left the room for a moment and hadn’t bothered to reseal the door. Maybe she’d needed water, or caf, or a toilet, and didn’t feel like fussing with the keypad. It only took a second glance for that theory to fall apart. Even from down the hall, he could tell someone was inside. He could hear two separate, muffled voices just under the thrum of equipment. Which was odd. Kuli usually worked alone. 

Careful not to disturb any loose duracrete, he crept closer, straining his ears to place the second voice. It was soft and warm, and he had an idea, but couldn't be sure until he was close enough to peek inside. When he was, he peered cautiously around the frame and found both Kuli and Obi-Wan sitting at the station. Del’s brow lifted, genuinely surprised. Kuli rarely even let himself or Lars disturb in there. Obi-Wan must've snuck in behind her and sprung the interaction.

Even so, it seemed to be going well enough. They weren’t fighting, at least, and their voices were low and thoughtful. They’d turned their chairs to face one another, and Obi-Wan leaned back in his, hands cupping a steaming mug of caf. One of his legs was crossed, ankle resting on his knee, and the other foot was outstretched towards Kuli. She wasn’t shying from it. Her own boots had come to bracket it, pressing them together. Her elbows were on her knees, head bowed and lekku slumping, and her face had the ruddy, scrubbed look of recent crying. 

Del couldn’t make out their words, but he didn’t need to. This was private. Whatever she was offering was meant for Obi-Wan’s heart and hands only. He watched a while longer though, eyes scanning Kenobi’s face to be sure of him. The man’s expression was solemn, but not unkind, and his presence felt soothing. Reaching out, Del could feel it's gentle swirl encircling Kuli. She leaned into it, her spirit settling for the first time in months. Del felt it tick down, and the change was so visceral that his own head felt clearer.

Satisfied they could manage, he went back to looking for Skywalker.

* * *

After his and Kuli’s talk, the oppressive atmosphere the base had taken on broke apart. The tension retreated to the dark, uninhabitable reaches of the ghetto, and their group reacquainted itself. Lars and Kuli were still tight knit, and Del was still their best intermediary, but they were able to share the common spaces again. Kuli took meals when Obi-Wan did, even making a point to sit next to him. Their conversations were stilted, but they’d always been, so he overlooked it. 

If he let himself, he could almost forget anything had happened.

He didn’t admit to Del that he’d been right, but didn’t have to. The change spoke for itself. Reopened communications came with a marked improvement. Now able to report to her personally and take direction, he could plan sweeps based on Kuli's most recent comm hacking. He could also lend a hand whenever she had trouble translating a message from a deep cover ally. All that made the two weeks following their reconciliation their most productive. 

By the end, they even had a usable lead.

He was stretched out on the couch, propped on his elbows and skimming his datapad when Kuli pinged his personal comm to deliver the news. He answered the ping without looking up, absorbed in his reading.

“Find something?” he asked, off-handed.

“You could say.” Even through static, her excitement was palpable. “But I might call it several somethings. Or, more accurately: our tickets out of this stinking hovel.”

Obi-Wan perked, all interest in his datapad gone. He locked the screen and slid it under the pillow he was resting on, then carefully laid the commlink where it had been. He balanced his chin in hand before speaking again.

“I’m listening.”

“We’ve got real hits, Kenobi. Two of them.” Something shuffled on her end, and he imagined her drawing her knees up into the rickety chair at her station. “We’ve got an informant on Pijal that wants to off-load some mission leads, and on Onderon, we’ve got a Jedi Killer’s base coordinates.”

His mouth cottoned, and it took several seconds for him to respond.

“Where are we hitting first?” he asked, then: “I suppose Onderon.”

Kuli hummed. “It certainly seems the most pressing at first glance. However, our informant wouldn’t talk details over comm.” She sniffed. “I suppose I understand. Security's dodgy, and I don’t want them compromised. But, unfortunately--"

“That means we don’t know what they have," Obi-Wan sighed.

Which really was quite inconvenient. It could be anything from stray coordinate pings to temple raiders, more Jedi Killers, or-- if they were lucky-- locations of surviving Order members. There was no way of knowing without meeting the informant personally, apparently, which meant Kuli was in a difficult position. As their leader, where they went was ultimately her decision. The rest could advise, but the choice came down to her.

“Have you talked to Del?” 

“He just left, actually.”

That was good, at least.

“Then I’m sure you’ll make the right decision.”

The line was quiet for several long moments, the stillness broken only by the ever present dust of static. 

“I was hoping you’d say that," she said finally. "Just do me a favor, and try to remember you did in a few minutes.”

Obi-Wan’s brow furrowed. He wasn’t sure he liked her tone. It was sheepish, and he could sense hesitation.

“Why?” he asked slowly.

The woman clicked her tongue before continuing.

“Onderon obviously needs to be hit soon. We’ve already lost time, and if we don’t want that mercenary taking out more us, it’s in our best interest that some of us go there--”

“Some,” he interrupted.

She couldn't be serious.

“And the rest,” she continued, as though he hadn’t interjected, “should follow up on Pijal, since those leads could be just as urgent.”

His chest tightened, a knot of panic tightening at the thought of separating their already small group. They’d only managed to survive this long by sticking together. There was no way of knowing how vulnerable they’d be after fracturing. But, he couldn’t really argue her point. They couldn’t just ignore a Jedi Killer. The assassin had already had plenty of time to kill, and was likely in possession of survivor coordinates. If their group could get ahold of those, they could wrangle the stragglers. While the importance of Pijal was uncertain, it’d also be reckless not to visit. Their informant had undertaken a great risk to get in touch, and Obi-Wan doubted they’d have done so without reason.

“How would we do it?” he asked, careful not to say he agreed yet. “Who would go where?”

He had a guess, and her answer confirmed it.

“I’d go to Onderon with Lars and Del; you and Skywalker to Pijal.” She released a heavy sigh, prepared to defend her decision. "Between the four of us, you’re the only one who's even been to Pijal. And you’ve gone often enough to know the land. You stand a better chance of being able to hide out if necessary. Besides, you’ve always been better with informants.”

That was true. He’d often been relegated to dealing with them. He might even know the one stationed on Pijal now. Still, he couldn’t help but worry. There were too few of them to undertake this sort of maneuver lightly.

“How would we keep in contact?”

“Secure comm lines and holovid. I’ve been working on a special encryption program for it. I can show it to you later.” He heard her shift again. “We’d be in contact every day, and could rendezvous whenever you wanted.”

That sounded like a bribe, and it probably was, but Obi-Wan didn't miss the hint of nerves in her voice. He knew that Kuli didn’t trust Anakin, and probably wasn't eager to leave them alone together. But, what other choice did she have? If she was determined to split the group, there was no other way to do it. She'd need the bulk of the group to attack a the Jedi Killer, and he and Anakin were a set. If she chose to bring them, she’d be down one fighter. There was no way she’d let Anakin be armed. 

It was in the group's best interest, then, for he and Anakin to tackle the mission least likely to involve a fight. Obi-Wan didn’t like it, but he didn’t have to. It was her call.

“Can I be briefed, at least?”

The woman’s sigh blew out the line. 

“Of course,” she said, plainly relieved. “After dinner I’ll show you the encryptor, then we can run the whole plan through. Sound good?”

After he agreed, she signed off, mumbling about last minute debugging. She didn’t even wait for his return call to cut the line. It went dead, feeding nothing but static through the closed circuit. 

Obi-Wan shut his end of it and tossed the comm aside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Del “I’m the only thing holding this shitty family together” Trico


	5. The Pijali Informant, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y’all! Back again. Hopefully you like the new update. Be sure to let me know! Love hearing what y’all think. Thanks for being wonderful :)

The days leading up to their flight from Coruscant passed more quickly than any since their group went into hiding. The ghetto was a buzz of activity and nerves, both of which only escalated as the time drew near. The four Jedi and their ward spent their time packing up rations, spare parts, and medical supplies. They forced as many provisions as they could into duffle bags, knowing that once outbound, returning wouldn't be possible. It'd be a miracle if their ships hit atmo without being atomized. If they managed that, even thinking about this system would be too risky. 

Obi-Wan was certain he wouldn't see the city again for years. The thought kicked his teeth. While he'd spent time in many remote systems during his life, the temple on Coruscant had always been home. His earliest memories were of tottering through its halls, and he’d passed much of his youth winding through the spires and chapels. He’d grown up tripping between the various dojos and great library, and met his dearest friends at the academy. Pacing the shadowy plains between the shells of the ziggurat, Obi-Wan had wrestled with all his gutting, youthful longings. He’d butted heads with Qui-Gon in nearly every alley, reverence and boyish pride in constant conflict. 

It was where, after the death of his own beloved master, that Obi-Wan had pledged formally to Anakin. The boy had been so young, and he himself largely untested. Ill-fated from the start, perhaps, but Obi-Wan had at least never failed in loving him. All his life since Anakin’s coming had centered on him. He was Obi-Wan’s axis: the bright star he spun around. He’d come to love his Padawan more completely than anyone, and memories of their time at the temple together were precious.

He didn’t dare to hope that the temple could be retaken. At least, not any time soon. He’d likely be either an old man or a dead one before a Jedi set foot inside again. In the grand scheme, of course, that meant little. It was just a building, however historic. What made it a living thing was the dedication and love of its keepers, and what remained of them could build another. On some distant, barren moon or lush jungle; it didn’t matter. Wherever they built it would become a new center of gravity. That some of them were still alive and _capable_ of building was what mattered.

Still, in his private moments, Obi-Wan would mourn it.

That would have come later, though. After they cleared Coruscant’s airspace, there’d be time to reflect more deeply on his loss. He’d been careful not to dwell for too long, fearing his sadness would seep out and infect the others. They were still raw, and the turbulence of the last few months made them vulnerable. Obi-Wan didn’t want to add too much to the chaos, so he’d been careful with when and where he acknowledged bereavement. For handfuls of minutes, either in his bedroom or Del’s, he’d allowed himself to unspool, weep, and shudder. It’d been a relief each time. The cathartic bursts helped level his head out, and he could only hope that longer exposure would yield lifelong results.

He hoped the same for all his team and any other Jedi they found. Just as much, though, he hoped for it for Anakin. Obi-Wan had thought about what Del had said while urging him to make peace with Kuli, and suspected he was right: Anakin had been hurt. Long before Padme’s death and the turmoil leading up to it-- the jealousy, anger, and suspicion that stained their bed-- there’d been his mother and Ahsoka, and so many friends ground up in war that it’d have taken days to name them all. One pain never had time to dry before another washed it over. It made a smear so overwhelming that he’d been swallowed by it. 

It wouldn’t happen again. Obi-Wan wouldn’t allow it.

But, that correction would also have to come later. The most pressing issue was their escape. The night before it, after everything that could be packed _had_ been, everyone, even Anakin, was restless. Del, Lars, and Kuli were holed up in the kitchen, nursing caf and going over maps of the level again. Obi-Wan had stayed a while, but eventually retired, not wanting to leave Anakin alone with his nerves. 

The other man knew they were leaving, but as for specifics, Obi-Wan hadn’t said. That wasn’t to be petty; it was meant to be an incentive. Obi-Wan knew him well. Anakin would need coaxing to make good on his promise of being civil. Conversation had never been a strength of his, and recently it’d gotten worse. Given the proper motivation, however, Obi-Wan was sure it’d improve.

It took up until Obi-Wan was nearly ready for bed for the other to finally engage. Sat in his chair across their common room, he stamped his foot, breaking the silence that had lasted for nearly two hours. The petulant sound startled Obi-Wan from his reading, but he managed to roll the motion into a stretch.

“Something wrong?”

When his eyes cut up, he saw the other man scowling.

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going, or should I ask your ship’s navicomputer?”

Obi-Wan blinked, affecting confusion.

“Do you want to know? I wasn’t sure.” He powered down his datapad, ignoring the other’s indignant gape. “You and I are bound for Pijal.”

Anakin’s brow creased. “What about the others?”

He bit back the urge to say. It wasn’t relevant, and easing into interactions aside, he was still wary of revealing too much.

“They have a different objective.” He shrugged. “We’ll meet up later, and in the meantime keep in touch through comms and holovid.”

Anakin’s tongue peeked out, dabbing his lower lip. The tip caught in a barely scabbed split. Obi-Wan wondered how often the stubborn thing had bitten it, trying to stall this conversation.

“So, Prim’s taking the others and leaving you to me.” His tongue drew back to slick the edge of his teeth. It left a faint pink streak. “Thought you and her made up.”

“We did.” A moment’s pause, then: “Why?”

“Just seems convenient, like maybe she’s hoping her problems will handle themselves.”

He didn’t have to ask what Anakin meant by that. He could hear the threat of it in his tone. It was a passive, teasing thing, humming just below the surface. He wondered if the other man was trying to unsettle him.

“You not being privy to every detail of a plan doesn’t mean something nasty is going on.”

Anakin scoffed. “That’d be easier to believe if I _had_ any details.”

“Which you might, if you could stomach asking me for them.”

The other man didn’t have a quip loaded for that. He grit his teeth, apparently checked. Obi-Wan took the opportunity to steer them forward.

“As it happens,” he continued, propping his elbows on his knees, “I don’t know much more than you. We’re meeting an informant, but I don’t know exactly where yet. We won’t be getting further instruction until we comm them, which we can’t do until we’re out of this system.”

“Why?”

The question came easy, and Obi-Wan rewarded it with a thorough explanation. At least, one as thorough as he could manage. Communications tech had never been his strong suit. The complex web of channels and subchannels seemed like witchcraft. Most of what Kuli tried telling him about Coruscant’s worsening situation-- signal jamming, line hacking, and channel sabotage-- had gone over his head. But, he regurgitated it anyway, knowing Anakin would be able to make sense of it. 

The younger man let him talk, interrupting occasionally to plumb deeper. Obi-Wan did his best, though going off-script made him feel stupid. He stumbled through it, though, and by the end his ward was satisfied. He’d even relaxed into his chair somewhat. He slumped, allowing his shoulders to bear his weight.

“Prim thinks the program she wrote will cut it?”

“Once we’re out of the system,” Obi-Wan allowed. “It’ll be safer than an open channel in any case, and if Palpatine doesn’t catch wind of us leaving--”

“He won’t have a reason to spy off-planet for a while.”

Obi-Wan nodded. “It’s not foolproof, but it’s good enough. We’ll ping our informant before entering the hyperlane, then you can be sure we’re on the same page. Fair enough?”

Anakin drummed his fingers. The tips clanked, and Obi-Wan made a note to find gloves for him. Maybe once they were on Pijal, they’d have time to visit the market.

“Yea,” he muttered. “Sure.”

“Good. Now--” He straightened out, working a kink from his back. “Get some rest. We’re leaving base in a couple of hours.”

Beating the morning traffic wouldn’t totally guarantee safety, but the fewer people that saw them running, the better.

* * *

Anakin was half dead as he dressed the next morning. He’d stayed up too late wriggling answers out of Kenobi, and the few hours of sleep he’d gotten were riddled with dreams. They were of Padme, like always, but this time they smelled like blood. 

The animal stink of it and all her sour sweat made him gag, as did the heavy overlay of disinfectant. They were somewhere bright and sterile, and she was dying in it. He could feel her failing heart. Its beat was weak, and she was terrified. She was crying. She wanted to go home. Her vision was darkening and she couldn’t move or speak. Her mouth kept twitching, but no sound came. She couldn't make it.

He’d woken up sweating, fists clenched so tight that some of his joints popped out. He felt off-balance, but hoped that having to focus on the retreat would clear his mind. It didn’t, though. He couldn’t stop seeing her half naked and bleeding. And then there’d been that shape of someone standing over her. Was it a doctor? If so, they’d been useless. 

While he struggled into his pants, he considered reaching out to find her again. It hadn’t worked the few times before, but he wanted to try again. Maybe on the ship, once out of the system, he’d have better luck. Away from Prim and the shadow of Palpatine, it might be easier to meditate. He could concentrate more deeply, catch her scent from wherever Kenobi had hidden her.

 _If_ he’d hidden her, that was. _If_ she was still alive.

“Something troubling you, boy?”

Anakin sucked a breath. He knew that voice, and it wasn’t Obi-Wan’s. It was Prim’s. He spun to face the door, every muscle tensed, and he reached for his saber hilt. 

His fingers found nothing. Of course. Kenobi had it.

The Togruta leaned against the door frame, arms crossed over her chest. Her lekku were at rest, and her expression was neutral. The Force around her swam with turbulence, though. The pools weren’t as choppy as they’d been when she’d interrogated him, but there was no denying her contempt. He could taste it.

“I don’t know where he is,” Anakin said, dodging her question.

“I do.” Her lips quirked. “But I’m not looking for him. I wanted to speak with you alone.”

Anakin swallowed. The last time that’d happened hadn’t been pleasant. It was easy to see why her old strike team was effective. Her ability to shred through mental defenses was unparalleled. It was also hideously painful. He could still feel the burn of it: how it’d smeared his vision, lit his nerves up, and took him out at the knees; how agony came in waves so suffocating he thought it’d kill him; how he’d vomited at her feet. She hadn’t cared about that. She’d let it splash on her boots, keeping up the onslaught, even ignoring him when he’d begged. And hadn’t that been humiliating? He almost couldn’t stand to look at her. How worthless he was to her was etched into her expression. 

Pushing out of her lean, Kuli stepped into the room. She kept her arms crossed and her boots fell softly. No immediate threat, but Anakin still stepped back. Her smile widened, and his attention snagged on her teeth.

“You have Obi-Wan fooled, to be sure. But you and I both know that isn’t hard.”

His brow furrowed. “Is that a confession?”

“It’s a character assessment. He’s got a soft heart, but I’m not Obi-Wan. Appeals to my better nature are-- well. You remember.”

Keeping up her slow advance, the Togruta narrowed her eyes. Anakin guessed what she meant to do too late. By the time he was mounting a defense, he could already feel a thick tendril of her energy pressing against his skin. It lapped like a tongue behind his ear and he shuddered, preparing himself to force her out. She didn’t dip in, though. She only teased the spot.

“He's a good man,” she continued, "and we all care for him, so I'm warning you now: don't be stupid. If he’s hurt in any way, I’m holding you accountable, and there won’t be anywhere in the galaxy for you to hide.” 

She finally halted, and Anakin realized it was only because their boots were touching. He felt their toes kiss and his gut clenched. He didn’t move, though. He couldn’t. He felt pinned by her glare.

“You understand me, boy?” He nodded and she stepped back, eyeing his bare chest with disgust. “Cover yourself and get moving, then. You’re already late.”

She turned for the door, leaving him alone with his ragged breath.

* * *

They made it to the shipyard without any trouble. They left early enough to miss the morning bustle, and without it, they were able to wind through the streets unhindered. It took less than half an hour to reach the docking bay and sneak onto their ships. 

They didn’t bother with goodbyes. It was bad luck. Instead, they gave each other curt nods before splitting off. Obi-Wan kept stealing glances at each of their faces as they went, committing them to memory. So much could go wrong between boarding and atmo, and he didn’t want to forget them.

Once aboard their vessel-- a shuttle retrofit with a hyperdrive-- Obi-Wan dropped his bags aside and made for the cockpit. He instructed Anakin to seal the hatch, put away their luggage, then to meet him at the controls. The man grunted but he didn’t argue, so Obi-Wan didn’t scold him for it.

Leaving the other to it, he slipped into the cockpit and gave the controls a cursory check. Everything seemed to be in order. None of the levers or buttons were damaged, and when he powered the ship up, the console lit. Relieved, Obi-Wan settled into copilot and entered a string of data into the navicomputer. It established a route for reaching atmo that Kuli had mapped based on what she’d learned from her most recent commline hacking. Apparently there was a snaking, upward corridor a few miles wide that, due to staffing issues, was largely unmonitored. Provided they stayed inside of it and nothing had changed, the path should be safe enough.

“What are you doing?” Anakin asked, voice coming through the entryway.

He heard the man drop into the pit. His boots smacked hard, and Obi-Wan felt the echo in his soles.

“Manually setting a course.”

“I meant where you’re sitting." He took a few steps forward and leaned in to study the screen. "That's copilot."

"I know. I was hoping you'd take the controls."

The other man stiffened, but didn't take his eyes off the trajectory prediction.

"Were you," he said flatly. "Why's that?"

Did he really need to ask?

“Because you’re the better pilot. If this gets hairy, you stand a better chance of flying us out.”

“And if I decide to fly us into trouble instead?”

Obi-Wan shrugged as though he hadn't considered that. He had, of course. He'd considered it heavily. He wasn’t convinced he could trust Anakin, but that was partially why he offered it. If this partnership was going to function, he couldn’t keep demanding one sided reliance. It made them too unbalanced, and they didn’t need help with that. Obi-Wan had to prove that he was willing to make concessions. He'd keep a close watch, of course, and was still their leader. But, good leaders always knew when to take copilot. 

“Then we’ll be killed, obviously.”

Anakin stayed in profile, but even from the side, Obi-Wan could see his expression turning pensive.

“Is this a test?”

“It’s a request," Obi-Wan sighed. "If you don't think you can fly it, though--"

"I can fly anything."

"Then take the chair. Please," he added for good measure. "We're on something of a schedule."

Anakin's jaw worked, and for a moment Obi-Wan thought he might argue more. He didn't, though. Biting back whatever he wanted to say, Anakin shrugged out of his robe. The garment pooled between their chairs, which was a violation of safety code. Obi-Wan opted to ignore it, however. He didn't want to bicker when Anakin was cooperating.

"What do you need me to do?" he asked instead.

"Not get in the way." Anakin settled into the seat and strapped into his crash webbing. He cranked the engines, the increased thrust making the old shuttle shiver. "Do we have guns?"

"Just the one." 

Obi-Wan thumbed the controls for it and Anakin hummed, sounding displeased.

"What about shields?" 

"I believe they're at twenty-five." 

" _Percent_?" 

After scanning the console to confirm the dismal number, the other man cussed and scrubbed his jaw. Coarse stubble darkened it, which was odd. Obi-Wan was used to seeing him clean shaven.

"Well," he muttered darkly, "Let's hope we don't take fire."

"Lets," Obi-Wan agreed. "Mind the path."

Anakin didn't respond. He just tugged back on the gear stick and guided their ship out of idle.

Three tense hours of cutting toward atmo and a microjump later found them at the furthest edge of the Coruscant system. Or maybe they were technically out of it already. Real space borders were vague distinctions at best. 

Regardless, they were far enough away from the eponymous planet to entertain a distraction. After engaging autopilot, the two went to the crew hold and set themselves up at a tabletop comm console. Obi-Wan entered the code Kuli had provided and raised their informant's home base. It took a while for an active line to establish; nearly twelve minutes, and another eight before a return transmission to pinged back. When it did, Obi-Wan accepted immediately and a quarter-scale holo of a Pantoran resolved. 

Her blue skin was darkened by the feed, as were the fabrics of her robes and headscarf. Her face was heavily tattooed, and her accent was so pronounced that it was difficult to parse through line interference. The three managed, however, and after confirming one another’s identities, the group negotiated a plan. The woman agreed to hold a room for them at an inn in Pijal's capital, which they could access by giving a code name. There'd be a tab open for food and drink, and spare credits in the room to buy clothes and supplies with. They could have the first night and following day on-world to rest, but she insisted on meeting them the second night. She didn't want to waste time, which Obi-Wan appreciated, and he promised to inform her the moment they made planetfall.

Satisfied, the Pantoran signed off without ceremony, leaving Obi-Wan to close the feed. He cleared the code from the station’s memory, then set about instructing Anakin for the rest of the flight. All in all, it went smoothly. They entered the hyperspace lane without trouble, and once en route, were scheduled to arrive within 72 hours. Obi-Wan used that time to note what repairs their shuttle needed, as well as to prepare it for long-term habitation. He stored their rations and supplies, dressed their cots, and cleaned the washroom and sonic shower as best he could. He even set up the tools Del lent Anakin, making a bench for him. If the other man noticed the gesture, however, he ignored it. 

When he wasn't in the cockpit, Anakin meditated or slept fitfully. By the look of him, though, he may as well have not slept at all. He was clearly having nightmares. Obi-Wan could hear him at night, tossing and muttering. Even if he couldn't, however, his under eye bruises would be impossible to miss. The lack of sleep left Anakin groggy, irritable, and distracted, and by the end of their flight, he was dead on his feet.

Obi-Wan suspected that, failed or not, these troublesome meditations served a purpose. Sloppy as Anakin currently was, it didn’t take much concentration for Obi-Wan to sense his intentions. He could scent his determination through the Force, feel how desperately the younger man was _reaching_ for something. What that was, he didn’t ask. It’d be invasive, and unnecessary since the man wasn’t presenting a danger. Exhaustion aside, he was still able to pilot manually and hadn't tried starting a fight. Whatever was going on could remain private for the moment.

He could always try wriggling secrets out of him after they’d made planetfall.

* * *

Anakin thought he might’ve heard every story Obi-Wan had on Pijal a dozen times. He’d grown up on tales of the planet, and while he'd always been fascinated, he hadn't entirely believed them. The strange, introspective aesthetic of Pijali architecture and dress seemed better fitted to a Jedi outpost. 

Now on-world himself, he was forced to reconsider. Evidently, Kenobi hadn’t been exaggerating.

While flying in low to search for a landing zone, Anakin was sure they were setting down in nowhere. He could see forests, a nearby clearing filled with hills and valleys, and a distant marshland, but no capital city. Not at first, anyway. Then, as they descended, the thickly knit clouds overhead broke. The shifting cover flooded moonlight into the clearing, bouncing it off an elaborate network of panels. They were man-made, reflective, and covered the head of every hill, which turned out to be densely clustered roofs. The valleys weren’t what he'd first thought either. They were streets, and came into focus as the ship descended. When they were close enough to deploy landing gear, he could finally make out the bustle of beings through them. Clever trick. No wonder Pijal had been able to avoid invasion.

Anakin scanned the crowd as they slinked through, searching for their inn. As he did, he picked up on details from Kenobi’s stories. Everyone they passed was dressed in plain, dull colored fabrics, but shimmersilk peeked out from their collars and sleeves. Rich, gemmy colors and embroidery hid in the lining of every tunic and cloak that fluttered by. Even the soles of some boots were delicately carved and painted. The details were lovely, but almost impossible to see. What had Obi-Wan said? Something about religious beliefs. He couldn’t remember. That tended to be where he lost interest.

It took over an hour, but eventually the inn came into view. Like the rest of the buildings its roof was low and sloped, and its stony walls were as dark as the planet's loam. It looked like a hovel, but that turned out to be another deception. The walls inside were painted a crisp, vibrant white, and the floor and ceiling were both elaborately tiled. The furniture was plain but for the undersides: the chairs and tables of the receiving room had painted bases. The reception desk was more opulent, with its belly dripping glass blown to look like stalactites. He crouched to stare at the glittering spikes while Obi-Wan took their room number and asked about food. The droid manning the station directed him, and Kenobi thanked it before slipping into the next hall.

Anakin followed him down a set of stairs into a dreary cantina. It was a cavernous space, with long, deep booths carved out of the walls. Exempting the barmaid, an LEP unit, and a few bobbing candledroids, it was also deserted. It must’ve been later on-world than they realized. The woman was mopping up the counter while the LEP collected glasses, both obviously hoping to shut down for the night. 

Undeterred, Kenobi told him to take a seat and muttered: _leave the negotiating to me_. Anakin did so, slotting into the nearest booth and propping his elbows up, content to let the man air out his charms. It didn’t take long. Kenobi's methods were effective, if not strictly protocol. He leaned against the bar, angling into the woman’s space and smiling wearily as he spun some sort of story. Anakin missed most of it, but he could feel the warm insistence of Obi-Wan’s energy swelling at it dragged. The poor woman bobbed along its current, smiling timidly in response to toothy grins and-- _stars,_ was that a wink? Of course it was.

After a few minutes, she ducked under the bar and resurfaced with two glasses and a large, unopened bottle. She passed them Kenobi before barking at her droid, then she raised her voice-- likely for Anakin--, to say it shouldn’t be long.

"You lied," he muttered when Kenobi joined him at the table.

The other man shrugged. "Not really. We _are_ hungry, or have you been enjoying the rations?"

Anakin didn't answer. Kenobi didn't need him to. They'd been living off garbage, and both of them knew it.

Obi-Wan uncorked the bottle and the stink of ferment wafted out. It seemed to be some sort of beer. It smelled bitter and when it was poured, it came all pale and frothy. Kenobi filled a glass and slid it to Anakin, motioning for him to drink. Anakin obeyed on instinct, only meaning to take a sip. When it met his tongue, though, he was so relieved to _taste_ something that he downed the whole thing in a few deep pulls. Panting for breath, he dropped the glass and wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. 

Obi-Wan refilled it before pouring one for himself. He drained it as well, his throat working almost compulsively. When he sat the glass down, he was grimacing, nose crinkled.

"I've always hated Pijali beer," he muttered, but poured more anyway. With his glass full again, he placed the bottle between. He left it uncorked and took a seat, crossing his legs at the knees. "But, a few months of protein slop makes one nostalgic for almost anything."

Anakin wasn't sure if that warranted a response. Thankfully, the LEP spared him having to think of one. It came tottering out from the kitchen, spindly arms balancing trays: one heaped with rice and the other with fried meats and vegetables. Steam billowed from the platters, filling the room with the sweet scent of spices. Anakin's gut twisted. He'd almost forgotten how good food could smell.

Setting the trays and a pair of plates and utensils before them, the droid told them to take their time. They could call it when they’d finished, and it’d clear whatever was left, but they were welcome to eat it all if they could manage. Then it turned and tottered back to the kitchen, presumably to clean, leaving them alone in the dining hall.

“Well,” Obi-Wan muttered, eyeing the mounds of food with chagrin. “Maybe I exaggerated a little.”

Anakin rolled his eyes but didn’t respond, opting instead to heap rice onto his plate. Obi-Wan followed suit, and as soon as their plates were filled, they tucked in and passed the meal in greedy silence.

It was a relief to sink their teeth into something solid, and for a while, the fact alone was enough to slack the tension. Anakin hadn't felt truly calm since waking in that bacta tank, but this familiar ritual quieted his mind. After every campaign suffered through in the Clone Wars, he and Kenobi had always taken their first real meal together back on Coruscant. Holed up in one of their rooms, they’d ask a few younglings to bring whatever, then gorge themselves nearly sick on a couch. Eating like half starved children after weeks of slop was nothing new, and for the moment at least, it leveled the playing field.

They emptied their plates and glasses several times before calling the droid. While it cleared their mess, they went back upstairs to find their room. It didn't take long; there was just one sleeping floor, and their room was only a few paces from the stairs. Easy exit, Anakin thought. An informant always needed one. 

Upon entering, they found it wasn't much bigger than their shuttle’s sleeper. It made a perfect square, and was fit with two single cots. A door was in the south wall, which led to a tiny refresher. Through the cracked door, Anakin could see the toilet was crammed into the shower. There were exposed pipes, though, which suggested real water. It was a small favor, but he’d take what he could get. Tight quarters were tolerable, but he wasn’t sure he could’ve stood another sonic shower.

"Do you want to use it?" Kenobi asked, following his gaze. "I can take one in the morning, if you like."

Anakin suspected the offer was less of a courtesy than play for time. Kenobi needed to find somewhere to hide the sabers. They'd been glued to his hips for days. Sharing so little space complicated hiding them. A long shower would give him time to figure it out, though. But despite doubting his motives, Anakin agreed. The meeting of his limbs and prosthetics ached, and a hot spray would dull it.

He locked himself in the bathroom and opened the tap, allowing the water to heat while he peeled off his clothes. They were grimy from too many missed washes, and he couldn't wait to throw them out. He'd salvage the outer robe, but nothing else was worth it. The tunic and pants had come third-hand, and Obi-Wan's bad tailoring was quickly coming apart. The shoddy hems were torn and frayed, and constantly caught. He looked like an unkempt slave, but if the informant had made good on her promise of credits, he wouldn’t for much longer. 

When steam had flooded the ‘fresher, he slipped into the stall and ducked He hissed, half pained when the water smacked scar tissue. The sound melted into a groan as his shoulders relaxed under the spray, and he leaned to rest his forehead against the tiles, refusing to move. For many long minutes, he didn’t think of anything but the pounding water. He didn’t want to. His mind had been too busy lately. When he wasn’t piloting, he’d been preoccupied with trying to contact Padme. But it hadn’t worked, and the little sleep he got was haunted. Always by the same dream: her bleeding out like a gutted animal, screaming and crying in a cold medbay. The smell of her fear was so thick he could taste it, and he’d wake sweating. He couldn’t have slept more than a couple of hours the last few days. Kenobi seemed to have noticed, but thankfully hadn’t asked. He gave looks, but he hadn’t pried, which was lucky. Anaking didn’t have an excuse, and he couldn’t afford to tell the truth. It’d expose his belly, make him weak.

He couldn’t imagine trusting Obi-Wan with weakness ever again. He’d lost too much ground already, and wouldn’t give up more.

He stumbled out of the ‘fresher an hour later, scrubbed pink and hair dripping wet. He hadn’t dressed. He’d left his filthy clothes in a heap. A spare towel was around his hips, one hand holding the knot secure. The other slicked his soggy bangs out of his eyes, allowing him to better scan the room. He found Kenobi already in bed, on top of the covers with a datapad propped on his lap as he read over something. The man’s eyes flicked up, scanned his chest, then cut back down quickly.

“Feel better?” he asked.

Anakin grunted. He did. Less sore anyway, and the effects of the alcohol had worn off. Even with the food to soak it up, the beer made his head swimmy. If Obi-Wan was similarly affected, it didn't show. He probably wasn't, though. Nothing touched Kenobi. He was the picture of composure and Jedi detachment.

Shuffling to his own bed, Anakin fell in heavily. The mattress bounced back, and he groaned. It was soft. The sheets smelled freshly cleaned and he turned to lay his cheek against them, eyes shut and aching for sleep. The cold air of the room licked exposed scar tissue. It prickled the burn between his shoulders, but it wasn’t any worse than the scratch of the towel against the others. He'd probably regret sleeping under it in the morning. Just then, though, he was too exhausted to care.

“Anakin?” 

Kenobi’s voice was already distant. He didn’t respond, and the other man sighed before muttering _good night_. He called for the lights to power down and a heavy darkness fell over the room.

Anakin let himself be swarmed by it, hoping that, at least for tonight, there wouldn’t be any dreams of Padme.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone enjoyed it! See y’all next update, where in addition to meeting the informant, we’ve got a highly emotional exchange between Anakin and Obi coming. So, prepare for that!
> 
> (also, if you're worried about Kuli's mental state, clap your hands.)


	6. The Pijali Informant, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! This chapter is a little longer than most, but I couldn’t justify breaking this arc into three parts. There wasn’t enough meat for that, so hopefully no one minds a few extra words here. Thanks for reading! Hope y'all enjoy :)

Their ship had been in Onderon's orbit for four hours when Del excused himself to call Obi-Wan. Nominally, that was to determine if he’d landed and met the informant yet. 

In reality, he was just tired of hearing Lars and Kuli bicker.

The two started arguing when their ship hit local space and still hadn’t reached a compromise. They couldn’t agree on the mission's particulars: where to land, how to form up, or if they should try taking prisoners. Del had weighed in a few times, but when one agreed with him, the other doubled down. So he'd given up, resigning himself to letting the children work it out. 

It was already a far cry from missions he’d led himself, and from those he’d co-commanded with Obi-Wan. He’d known that’d be the case, but the reality of it was troublesome, especially since Prim wasn't operating at peak. She always ran hot, but she’d never been a bad leader. Once her trial ended and she’d been reincorporated, she’d actually been a good one. She was the master of many abilities, a skilled tactician, and when in check: a great asset. _In check_ , though, seemed to be the operative phrase.

Despite what he'd told Obi-Wan-- and none of that he regretted, since it’d helped bring their group back together--, Del wasn’t so sure that Kuli could handle sole leadership. Driven as she was, it was easy for her to lose sight of herself. She valued the end result more than the journey, which could be tricky in her current state of mind. The loss of her Padawan made her unstable, and while such a loss was traumatic for everyone, how she'd dealt with it so far was telling.

He didn’t want to think the Togruta couldn’t be relied on. He believed in her at her best. Just now, though, she wasn’t at it, and it’d be stupid not to have a contingency plan at the ready. He hadn’t discussed it with Lars, but Del was prepared to take over if necessary. He could do it; Kuli would be angry, but she wouldn’t duel him. He wouldn’t try it yet, though. He had to give her a chance. If it came down to it, though--

He shook the thought. Brooding over an uncertain future wasn’t what he’d come to do.

Setting up at a tabletop station, Del entered Obi-Wan's code and sent a hail before settling in comfortably for a wait. He reclined in the booth as the system sought out a reliable signal. It took nearly fifteen minutes, which wasn’t surprising, given how untested the program was. It wasn't even unpleasant. The more alone time Del could swing, the better he’d feel about having to go back. He couldn't make out their words, but he could hear Prim and Lars still arguing in the command cabin. He would've happily waited an hour just for the peace. 

He didn't have to, though. Once the line was live, it only took a few moments for a response to come through. Del accepted, allowing the image being sent through to resolve, and what he saw was-- not what he expected, actually.

It wasn't Obi-Wan who answered; it was Anakin, and by the looks of him he'd been asleep until that second. His hair was mussed and he squinted in the harsh, blue light. He was also naked, a thin blanket gathered in his lap. One of his hands fussed with the holotransmitter, adjusting how it rested on its perch.

"Which side of the day am I catching?" Del asked.

"The early one." Anakin's voice was gruff. "'s not even six yet."

"Just in time for morning prayers, then." Del laughed at his own joke, despite it not being a good one. "Is Obi-Wan sleeping?"

"He's showering.” Anakin yawned. “Do you need him?"

"No. I just wanted to touch base. Have you made planetfall?" When Anakin nodded, Del leaned back, resting his head against the booth's cushions. "Met up with the informant?"

"Not yet. She’s coming tonight." Anakin pawed his eyes. "Sure you don't want me to get him?”

"Are you trying to say you don't want to talk to me? If it's modesty, let me remind you that I've seen you in less."

He gave a pointed look to the fabric in Anakin’s lap, and the boy scoffed. Or maybe it was a laugh. The two sounds were so similar. They hadn't always been, though. Del remembered that Skywalker used to be charming. He'd always been hotheaded, but he'd also been good humored. With any luck, that’d come back.

"You're about the only one I don't mind talking to," Anakin said.

It was a staggering little confession, but Del took it in stride.

"Then I'm sure. Obi-Wan can call back later." Del drew one leg up, planting his foot on the seat. "So, what's the plan? Since you've got all day."

For the next several minutes, Skywalker mapped out their itinerary. They’d scout in the afternoon if there was time-- Pijal seemed peaceful, but if they had allies there, they probably also had enemies-- but most of the day was going to be spent combing the market. The informant had apparently left several thousand credits, and they were going to use it to stock up on provisions. Anakin was also hoping to find a junker, as there were several issues with the shuttle he and Obi-Wan had taken. The instrumentation needed tweaking, the engine was due a tuning, and at some point the ray shield generator had taken damage. Some of the hull panels were loose and the landing gear was rickety. In short, the younger man said, it was trash. He had plans to put Del’s tools to heavy use, and not just on the ship. He had an idea for a prosthetic mod but was less certain of that.

“It’ll take experimenting,” he hedged when Del pressed, “and I don’t know how thrilled Kenobi will be.”

“But?”

“But--” Anakin paused to chew his lip. “I think I can make up for not having a weapon.”

Technically, Anakin had a dozen weapons. The Force granted him unprecedented power, but Del could guess how he felt without a lightsaber. It was more than a weapon; it was an extension of its owner's body.

“You think," Del repeated, "but you aren’t sure.” Anakin shook his head. “Run it by me, then. Maybe I can help knock some of the dents out.”

Skywalker hesitated, picking at his blanket. It shifted, revealing the edge of a splatter burn. Del winced, imagining the pain the deep, puckered thing must cause.

“Remember Grievous’ MagnaGuards?” Anakin asked after a while. “We got ahold of one of their electrostaffs once, and I took it apart a couple of times on the flight back to Coruscant. It’s been a while, but I remember the powerpack wasn't anything special.” His brow furrowed. “I could replicate it, no problem. The trick would be conduction and grounding. If I got it wrong, I’d be fried in fifteen seconds.”

That was probably too generous of a timeline.

“If you got it right, though, you’d have a good defense system. You want to do this to an arm, I guess?” When Anakin grunted, Del nodded. “It'd certainly keep your upper body out of trouble.”

It’d also allow him to block lightsabers, which Del guessed was the primary concern. They could deflect almost any weapon, but saber combat was the electrostaff’s main function. Was the boy expecting an attack? Obi-Wan wouldn’t, but Anakin had no way of knowing that for certain. Obi-Wan could swear it until his skin turned blue, but making the boy believe wasn’t in his power. 

“If it were me,” Del began, “I’d test it out on a few scrap droids to see how different materials affect the current’s flow and hang time. As for grounding, I’d try through an attachment. Some sort of disruptor band, maybe, that you could keep around your wrist.” He popped his lips. “I’d also tell Obi-Wan immediately.”

Skywalker quirked a brow. “What if he says I can't build it?”

He wouldn’t. Del would bet his right eye on that. As saying so wouldn’t help, however, he tried something else.

“Have you been wondering why I talk to you?” he asked, canting his head. “Back at the shop, after reccies, or even now?”

The boy’s eyes narrowed slightly, which wasn’t an answer, but close enough. Del had sensed his suspicion more than once.

“Same reason I gave you those tools,” he continued, then, for emphasis: “ _Gave_. Not loaned. They’re yours.” Anakin’s expression slacked, but before he could question it, the older man pressed on. “In part, because I want to. You’re sharp, and I like you. I want this transition to go well.”

It was a long minute before Anakin bit.

“What’s the other part?”

“Because you let me. I couldn’t do anything without that.”

Anakin’s face ran a gambit of expressions, finally settling on a moody pinch. He didn’t look annoyed, exactly. He looked to be considering the words, so Del pressed the advantage gently.

“Maybe Obi-Wan is exactly what you think.” Del shrugged. “And, maybe he’s not. You can’t be sure if you never test him, and at some point, you’ll have to. Doesn’t have to be today,” he added, raising a hand in pacification. “But if you ever want to know if you can trust him, you’re going to have to bare your throat and see if he bites.” 

Anakin blew out a long breath. It sounded like the hiss of a machine. He was nodding, though, which Del took comfort in. Whatever he was thinking, he hadn’t gotten a nerve pinched.

“Should I let you go?” the older Jedi asked. “You probably need to get dressed.”

“Yea,” Anakin grunted, not sounding like he wanted to. He scrubbed his jaw and glared at something on the floor. “Hopefully the last time I have to strap into these rags.”

“Hopefully,” Del snorted. “Do yourself a favor: don’t let him tailor again.”

* * *

Pijal’s capital market was so similar to Tatooine’s that every few meters, Anakin forgot where he was. Wandering through the stony stalls passed rows of meat and grain and fragrant spices, he couldn’t help but think of his old home. The market in the slave quarter wasn’t as richly decorated, but the set up was basically the same. The noise and clutter made him think of afternoons spent trailing his mother. It even smelled like he remembered. Maybe all markets did.

He tripped behind Kenobi as the man cut a path. They found a clothier first, run by an old woman and a tailor droid. They had themselves fit for two sets of tunics and pants, as well as gloves to cover Anakin’s prosthetics. While she and the droid made alterations, they moved on to barter for rations and medical supplies, the most useful of which-- at least for Anakin-- was a tub of nerve cream. It wouldn’t do anything for the scarring, but it’d curb the pain, which was what mattered. How his body looked didn’t matter as long as it functioned.

After securing basic provisions, they had enough credits left to argue with junkers. Obi-Wan led them to the scrap sector, but allowed Anakin to take over when the traders started naming prices. It took a while to talk them down-- he wasn’t as charming as Obi-Wan, but he was determined. Eventually he won out, and they left dragging a handcart full of spoils.

On the way back to the clothier, Anakin kept glancing through the market’s top. Huge metal spikes lined the front of the stalls, pitching up swaths of thick, sturdy fabric. It gave good cover, but there were gaps between each bolt a foot or so long. They exposed the market to a sky that was clear and blue and natural. The sun beat down through the gaps uncomfortably, but that wasn’t his main focus. His interest was the moon. Its grayish outline stood out brilliantly, and might’ve been beautiful if it weren’t for the visible damage. The surface was mottled all over by huge, dark collapse points. 

“Is that from Czerka mining?” he asked, jerking his chin up.

Obi-Wan followed his gaze and grimaced.

“It is. There hasn’t been drilling in decades, but they did a lot of damage.” He shook his head. “The core was compromised, and there’s no fixing that. From what I understand, preservation efforts are largely mitigation. Guiding collapses, quake suppression, that sort of thing.”

“Disaster control.”

“Just so.” Kenobi cast a glance aside. “But that’s better than letting it fall. The moon could easily last several thousand more years. All it takes is mounting the right effort at the right time.” He shortened his gait, falling back to be closer. “Disaster might be unavoidable, but it doesn’t have to be the end.”

Anakin wondered if they were still talking about the moon.

* * *

It was dark when they returned to their room. They’d had to stop by the ship to offload their haul, and it took over an hour to pack it up and get back to the inn again.

When they did, the informant was waiting on Anakin’s bed.

Obi-Wan’s gut reaction to seeing a shape in the dark was to activate his sabers and cross them in defense. It was only when he saw her face in their glow that he relaxed, releasing a breath. He deactivated the blades immediately and asked Anakin to bring the lights up. 

“You’re jumpy,” the woman said, her Basic heavily accented. “That’s good. Pijal is crawling with hostiles.”

He didn’t need telling. Obi-Wan sensed as much while he and Anakin ran through the motions of their day. Reaching out to test the climate, he felt fear and hatred all around them. He didn’t say it, though. Pulling weapons was a bad enough start. 

Instead, he waited for the lights to reach full power to get a better look at their ally. She was Pantoran, as he’d known. Her skin was more richly pigmented in person, though. The blue was darkest at her lips, eyelids, and knuckles, bleeding out paler to the rest of her skin. Her golden tattoos were crisp, cutting her chin, cheeks, forehead. Her clothes and headscarf were dark, and strapped around her waist and ankles were a pair of blasters and throwing knives, respectively.

“Quite an introduction,” he said, crossing his arms. “I don’t suppose you could’ve warned us you’d be inside.”

“There was no need.” The woman smirked. “You were going to find out regardless.”

Anakin scoffed, plainly annoyed at being caught off guard. The informant’s eyes cut to him, narrowing to slits. Before either of them could say anything, Obi-Wan stepped very deliberately between them. He was shorter than Anakin, but the gesture was enough to make the woman relax. Waving the rude sound off, she leaned against the wall behind her.

“I trust the accommodations are to your liking.”

“Of course, and thank you for the credits. We needed them.”

“It’s no trouble. Your woman told me you were bad off.”

Obi-Wan bristled at having Kuli be called _his woman_ , but he didn’t correct the Pantoran. Instead, he took a seat at the end of his bed. Anakin followed suit, though he didn’t join him on the mattress. He settled onto his knees on the floor by the wall, looking like a Padawan awaiting lecture.

“You’re ready?” the woman asked, attention flicking between them. “Good. I’m pressed for time. The capital isn’t as welcoming as it used to be.”

Obi-Wan’s brow cocked. “Have you been compromised?”

If so, had she been followed? Sensing the question, the Pantoran eased his mind.

“Don’t worry, Master Jedi. I covered my tracks. But yes, I’ve been compromised. Everyone has.” She shook her head, looking more annoyed than concerned. “The few allies I had scattered. It’s getting harder to find places to hide.”

“I’m sorry,” he said honestly. “I know you’ve taken a risk to meet us.”

“I’m a spy. Everything I do is risky. But we aren’t here to talk about me. You still want leads?”

“We’d be grateful.”

She nodded, pursing her lips as she gathered her thoughts.

“Like I said, my associates have all but dried up. Still, I’ve managed to learn a few things. They’re centered on a single planet: Naboo. You know it?”

Obi-Wan winced. Of course the intel would lead there. He didn’t have to glance aside to know Anakin had tensed. He felt the shudder of it through the Force. _Naboo_ : where he and Padme had married, bared their bodies, made love and sweat and children, made each other happy. It’d have been too much to ask, he supposed, to be sent anywhere else.

“We’re familiar,” he said neutrally. “What’s going on there?”

“A new black market has sprung up. The planet’s currently enjoying an influx of riches. Many of the Emperor’s on-world allies are being rewarded with looted goods and passing them along for profit. Imperial agents and independent dealers are both responsible for the incoming stock, which seem to be the spoils from the temples of at least a dozen worlds.” She held up a hand, ticking off on her fingers. “Holocrons, statues, raw kyber, personal effects; lightsabers and Padawan braids being the most costly.”

Obi-Wan recoiled. Imagining someone tearing out a child's hair made him sick. And then to sell it like a _thing_ \-- The informant's expression softened, and when she next spoke, so did her voice.

"I'm sorry. I'm sure it's hard to hear, but these operations are popping up all over. Fortunately, most are small enough to handle quietly. Naboo’s market is being filled by multiple agents, but only one is in charge of corralling it. A Gungun male known as Kleffi is that one, and he does private business with anyone who knows how to contact him."

“Which you do.”

It was Anakin who said it. His voice was dull, and when Obi-Wan looked at him, his face was drawn. The eddies in the Force around him bubbled with something ugly. There wasn’t time to sort it out, though. The informant was responding.

“It’s my job to, Master Jedi.” If she noticed how Anakin glowered, she ignored it. “In any case, he’s not bright enough to be cautious. Establishing contact is easy.” Returning her attention to Obi-Wan, she gestured to his datapad. “Hand it over. I have some data for you.”

Obi-Wan tossed the datapad and she caught it, inserting a chip into port. She spent the next several minutes fussing with the screen. While she worked, she kept the conversation rolling.

“What I’m giving you,” she continued, “are maps to and of his usual haunts, as well as files on his most senior men. You won’t be able to approach him directly. You have to go through one of them first, and be careful not to speak out of code. They’ll have questions, and they'll be expecting very particular responses. Just stick to the script I’ve also attached, and you’ll be in. Once you are--”

“We can relieve Kleffi of the burden of his spoils.”

The Pantoran nodded. “And of his head, if you wish. Though I’d suggest holding your temper until you’re ready to breach atmo. As I said, there’s more than one thing of note on Naboo.”

She ejected the first datachip and loaded in another.

“More maps?” Obi-Wan asked.

“Just files: the names and photos of Kleffi’s most active dealers. You can pass this along to the rest of your group and split going after them, but I’ve flagged one for you two, specifically.”

"Why?"

"Because he moonlights as a Jedi Killer, and your woman mentioned she was already tailing one.” The Pantoran smiled over the screen, the expression devoid of humor. “Can't let her have all the glory, can you, Master?"

The Pantoran tossed the datapad back, and Obi-Wan frowned as he caught it. There wasn't any glory to have. Still, as he skimmed the file, he felt a thrill. Having an enemy to track was a familiar comfort.

"What makes you sure that this--" He scrolled back up to the name. "--Nema person isn't just a trader?"

"He's the one supplying the braids. You don't just find those laying around. Besides, he likes to brag. He's been overheard discussing assassinations, and has the right sabers to back his stories up.”

Frown deepening, Obi-Wan scanned the image more critically. Nema, or so called, was a middle aged human male, thickly muscled and scarred. He looked battle-hard and lethal. If he had an electro-weapon, it’d be nothing for him to parry saber attacks. Someone rattled enough, particularly a Padawan, would be easy enough prey then.

“You say he’s a frequent supplier,” Obi-Wan muttered. “I take that to mean we’ll find him on Naboo.”

“If your timing is good, but his base is elsewhere. If you want to raid that, you’ll have to track his ship.”

He _did_ want to, and not just for artifacts. It was likely he had coordinates stored there. If he and Anakin could intercept them, they might be able to find survivors. But, that was thinking too far ahead. They’d have to plant a tracker first. Anakin could assemble one easily; the real issue would be making sure it wasn’t detected. But they had time to figure that out. It was a week’s flight to Naboo. They could brainstorm in flight. There wouldn’t be much else to do.

“Thank you,” Obi-Wan said, backing out of the file and locking the screen. “Really. You didn’t have to answer our call.”

None of the people who’d reached out to Kuli did. With the Order in pieces, their contracts were void. There was no one to pay them or mount a rescue if they were captured. And if they were caught abetting the Jedi, punishment would be severe. Sidious wouldn’t allow his extinction event to be thwarted by spies.

“I did, actually,” she corrected. “I had friends in the Order. Most are dead, and the ones who aren’t are on the run. I don’t expect I’ll ever see them again.” Unfolding her legs, she slipped out of bed and drew up full. She was small, but Obi-Wan suspected that she was still dangerous. “So it’s good to see you. I know I don’t know you, but it makes me-- well.” She adjusted her headscarf almost nervously, and he wondered what hopeful thing she’d almost said. “Just don’t get yourselves killed.”

He hoped they wouldn’t, but didn’t promise. He wasn’t sure that he and Anakin could honor it.

An hour later, Anakin asked a question Obi-Wan had been dreading. 

"She's dead, isn't she?"

His voice was dull. The words came small and pitifully resigned, and Obi-Wan went rigid where he sat.

He was perched cross legged on the edge of his bed, datapad open in his lap. He’d been skimming the files their informant had loaded, but wasn’t reading deeply. He couldn't concentrate enough for that. Too much of his peripheral attention was on Anakin. He'd sensed something coming, felt it ramping up like a storm ever since the Pantoran said their target planet's name. The Force around the man swarmed, electric and wild, an awareness knitting that already felt half chewed.

The younger man was still crouched on the floor. He hadn't moved. He sat stiffly, fists clenched, eyes glassed, and mouth trembling in a warning that Obi-Wan wasn't stupid enough to ignore. He knew Anakin’s tells: knew when he was panicking, and how badly he’d react to interference. What he _didn't_ know was what to do about it.

A year ago, this would've been easier. He could've given a quick answer and slipped out of bed, walked on his knees to the other man’s side. He could’ve crushed him against his chest, let Anakin burrow into his neck, and bore the weight of his sadness. He couldn't touch him now, though. Anakin wouldn’t allow it. All he could do was stare down, nails catching his palms, tongue heavy. Could he even say it? He hadn’t really said it to himself yet.

“I kept trying,” Anakin mumbled when Obi-Wan took too long, but didn’t say what it was he’d tried. “At first I thought I was still too weak. But then I got better, and still couldn’t--”

He trailed off, one of his metal hands clenching tighter. The new leather of his gloves creaked under the strain. He sunk his teeth into his lip to quell the trembling and took a shallow breath before continuing.

“Then I thought it was a trick. Maybe she’d gone into hiding, or someone was keeping her from me.”

 _Someone_ was diplomatic. Obi-Wan knew who he meant. The man suspected him of many things at the end. Most painful of all his accusations, though, was of himself and Padme being involved. He hadn’t said it explicitly, but it read clear on his face. When they’d arrived on Mustafar together, Anakin looked as though he’d caught them in bed. A violent shock of betrayal rolled through the Force before his eyes hardened, and once they did, nothing Obi-Wan could’ve said mattered. Never mind that he’d have died before touching Anakin’s wife.

“But that can’t be right.” Anakin’s brow creased, his eyes threatening to well over. He snarled when he felt it, turning his face to the wall. “If she was anywhere, it’d be Naboo. That’s where her allies are. They’d keep her safe, and you wouldn’t let me near it.”

“Anakin--”

“ _Don’t_ ,” he hissed, and Obi-Wan’s mouth clicked shut. “Just tell me. I can take it.”

Obi-Wan didn’t believe that, but he couldn’t dodge the question. They’d put this off too long, and Anakin deserved an answer.

"Yes," he said softly. "Padme is--" The word stuck, and Obi-Wan had to cough to pry his throat open. "She is," he finished, unable to say it. "There were…medical complications."

He wasn’t sure what’d gone wrong exactly, though he’d agonized over it. The births weren’t perfect-- she’d lost blood, and a droid had to help with delivery-- but nothing that happened should’ve been life-threatening. Only stress accounted for the sudden downturn, and there’d been plenty of that. Anakin’s turning, how he’d attacked, all her fear and pain and misery-- in her fragile state, maybe that was enough.

Obi-Wan's gut lurched as he remembered Padme screaming: her face sweaty, eyes dark and mind spilling over. The only thing that kept her anchored was the stink of her own blood. She couldn't stop gagging from the smell. The coughs grew weaker as she faded, but her grip stayed strong until the end. If he clenched just right, he could still feel her fingers. It made him shudder, as did the memory of how she kept saying Anakin's name. Calling him that, maybe, or asking to see the man. But Obi-Wan couldn't bring him. He'd been dying on the ship, and if he’d been dragged in, the sight of his ruined body would've killed her quicker. 

More than that, though, Obi-Wan had been afraid to leave. She might die while he was gone, alone and cold, and he couldn't allow that. It felt filthy to take her last moments, but he couldn't bring himself to leave her without a witness.

Anakin’s ragged breath brought him back to the present. Against the wall, the man’s shoulders were hunched and tight. His neck was still craned to hide his face, but Obi-Wan didn’t need to see it to know he was crying. He could hear it in his uneven inhalations, and how his breath shuddered as he tried to control its release. He was trying to keep steady, and he was failing. His resolve was thinning, and with each passing second the shake in his shoulders grew more visible.

“I was with her,” Obi-Wan continued timidly, not sure it would help but certain it couldn’t make it worse. “She wasn’t alone, and I was able to ease some of her pain.”

He couldn’t save her. That wasn’t in his power to do, but he’d quieted her mind enough for her to think. It gave her time to name the children and pick a custodian, which felt like nothing, but it was the most he could do.

“The baby?” Anakin asked, voice full of frothy spit. “Did it-- did _I_ \--”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. Obi-Wan knew that he was thinking about his power closing tight on Padme’s throat, the violence inducing labor. Maybe he thought that’s what killed her. Maybe it had, but Obi-Wan had no desire to prove it. 

“They’re fine,” he assured. “They were born perfectly healthy.”

They were perfect in every way, actually. They’d been so small and soft that Obi-Wan had worried he’d hurt them. Once in his arms, though, he’d never wanted to put them down.

“They?” 

Anakin finally turned from the wall. His eyes were red and narrowed suspiciously. Of course, Obi-Wan thought, and his heart plummeted. Padme hadn’t known, which meant Anakin didn’t either. _Stars_ , but what a hideous way to find out.

“She had twins,” he said, and Anakin’s expression slacked. Guilt coiled tight in Obi-Wan’s gut. “A boy and a girl. She didn’t know until--”

Anakin cut him off with a wounded, guttural whine that tore up from his gut without warning. He sounded like he’d been shot, and screwed his eyes shut to staunch a fresh flow of tears. Shaking his head, he pressed the back of one hand to his mouth, stifling the sound too late. 

He used the other to claw to his feet, and with eyes still clamped tight, stumbled into the ‘fresher and locked up inside.

* * *

He didn’t know how long he was in there. He couldn’t focus on anything but the deep, burning ache in his chest. It worked down, knotting his stomach and making him retch and gasp for breaths that tore at his lungs like they’d been scorched. Everything hurt, and he couldn’t see through the miserable stream of tears. 

He couldn’t making that _noise_ either, no matter how hard he tried.

Thick, wet sobs shook his body, making him rock where he crouched in the shower stall. He shoved a few fingers into his mouth and bit to stifle them. It didn’t work, though. All it did was make his jaw ache. Keening, frantic whimpers leaked out like spit around his glove, echoing through the small room. He sounded pathetic, and felt worse. He thought he’d been ready, but he’d been wrong. He wasn't ready to hear it at all.

Maybe if it’d just been what he expected: that Padme and his baby were dead. Crushing as that was, he’d had months to brace for impact. But that the child-- no, _children_ , survived? That they’d been given to a stranger, were going to be raised without ever knowing him? It was a kick in the teeth he couldn’t have called.

Without wanting to, he caught himself imagining the babies: their tiny bodies, soft skin, and frail hands. How their fingers would’ve wrapped around one of his own, latching happily, not understanding how it made his heart swell just to look at them. How their weak, bleary eyes would’ve stared up as he cradled them, so fragile and precious, against his chest. Would they have hair yet? Would it be dark? Would they look like Padme? 

He’d never know. He could walk right by them without realizing.

The thought dragged out another ugly whimper, and Anakin bit so hard into his fingers he thought they'd dent. He couldn't stand the idea of Obi-Wan outside listening, but what could he do about it? He was caught in the tide, and his only option was to ride it out. 

He'd dodged it too long, let it swell to the point of breaking, and now it was going to last for as long as it had to.

When his sobs finally settled down to gasping, he could see the light in the rest of the room was still at full power. It streamed under the door, nearly reaching his boots and he could hear Obi-Wan shifting in bed. It creaked under his weight, like he couldn’t decide on a position. _Of course_ he was still awake. It would’ve been too much to ask for privacy. It would’ve been an incomplete humiliation.

Scrubbing his face dry, Anakin took a few breaths before climbing to his feet. His head hurt, his throat was raw, and he could feel how red his eyes were. He was a wreck, and the last thing he wanted was to be seen. Hiding out in the 'fresher all night wasn't an option, though. If Obi-Wan waited this long, he'd wait until morning. It was better to get it over with.

Steeling himself, Anakin punched the code for the lock. The door hissed as its panels receded into the wall. The sound startled Obi-Wan from where he'd apparently been lightly dozing. He was stretched out, head pointed toward the ‘fresher door. His fingers curled around a water bottle and when he jolted, his hand clenched, crunching its flimsy waist.

"Anakin?" 

The name was slurred, and it took a few seconds of blinking for the man to be sure. As Anakin came into focus, he pushed himself up and drew his legs under. He came to rest on his knees, bowing the thin mattress. 

"Didn't mean to fall asleep," he muttered. "How are you feeling?"

Anakin scoffed, not caring that it cut his irritated throat. Obi-Wan grimaced at the sound.

"Right. My mistake." 

Eager to move on, the man unscrewed the bottle and held it out to him. He fully extended his reach, maintaining distance, but Anakin still eyed it suspiciously. Only for a moment, though. His mouth felt like cotton, and he knew the water would feel good. Snatching it, he dragged it back quickly and drained half in a few gulps.

"Easy," he heard the other man say. "Don't make yourself ill."

 _Too late for that_. But Kenobi was right. His stomach was still doing flips. If he wasn't careful, he'd vomit it up, and that’d just make things worse. Fighting the urge to drain the bottle, he passed it back while wiping his mouth. Obi-Wan nestled it between his thighs but left it open, ready to pass. Anakin guessed he’d have to ask next time, though.

They stared at each other for what felt like minutes. Obi-Wan studied him, open-faced and patient. He looked like he was waiting for something; questions, maybe. Anakin had them, but was afraid to ask. He didn’t know what Kenobi could or couldn’t say, and he didn’t think he could handle being told no. His body was still wound tight, all of his emotions gunning to burst out again. However they came, they’d be ugly. Still--

“Do you know them?” 

The question slipped out without consent. Anakin hadn’t really wanted to ask, but Obi-Wan was sitting with his arms splayed, his core open and vulnerable. Ceding the high ground, or maybe just setting a trap. Either was possible, but Anakin’s chest felt cracked open. He was tired and all his phantom joints ached, and for just a second, he wanted to believe. Maybe not in Kenobi, personally, but in what used to exist between them. Something soft and safe that wouldn’t hurt him. Except, of course, that it had.

“Who?” the man asked, interrupting the messy thought.

“The person who took the babies.”

He considered for a second. “I do, and so did Padme. I can’t name them, though. It was a personal request, and I won’t dishonor it. But I’d swear by their intentions on my life. They’re--” 

Obi-Wan trailed off, his brow creased deeply. His fingers curled and his mouth turned down, like he was remembering the feel of something.

“They’re good people,” he finally settled on. “Your children will be safe. I can’t think of anyone who’d be able to raise them better.”

It was a roundabout way of calling Anakin unfit, but he didn’t have the energy to be offended. It was true. What he’d done to Padme, how he’d hurt her-- he couldn’t be trusted with tender things. 

“Did she--” he started to ask, then bit his lip.

The stalled question burned the roof of his mouth. He wasn’t sure it was a good idea to ask. Kenobi might not know, and even if he did, what did it matter? He’d never be able to put the information to use. But he wanted it, maybe more than anything since waking up. He wanted something of his children to catch onto.

He cleared his throat, breaking up tension, and tried again. 

“Did she name them?”

Obi-Wan blinked, hesitating. Not because he didn’t know; Anakin could feel that he did. He was just considering something, and Anakin worried it might be whether or not he could get away without saying. The possibility churned up a fresh wave of nausea, and he thought: _Obi, please._ Or maybe he said it, because the other man flinched so violently Anakin almost felt it.

"Luke," Obi-Wan said, tone soft and appeasing. "And the little girl is Leia.” He paused for a second, then asked: “Do you help choose them?”

Anakin shook his head, feeling dazed as he took in the names. Luke and Leia; Leia and Luke. They sounded sweet together. He tried to imagine what a little girl named Leia might look like. Almost certainly more beautiful than he deserved.

“Padme said it was bad luck,” he muttered. “Said you shouldn’t pick names until someone’s born. Naboo custom, I guess. I didn’t ask.”

There hadn’t been a reason to. He never imagined he wouldn’t be there for the birth. He hadn’t imagined a lot of things. He’d been stupid, and not just in that way. Over a decade of training, and he still hadn’t learned to ask the right questions.

On the bed, Obi-Wan shifted. He spread his legs to free the bottle and took it in one hand. He ran the lip with two fingers, spreading moisture. If it was metal, it would’ve made the opening sing. But it wasn’t, and the plastic just crinkled, its wet rim squeaking unpleasantly. It made Anakin aware of how dry his mouth had gone again.

“Can I have some?” he asked, gesturing to the bottle.

Obi-Wan held it out, but didn’t fully extend his arm. He kept his elbow bent, and if Anakin really wanted it, he’d have to take several steps in. He hesitated, unsure of how he felt about getting close. The man’s sabers were still strapped to his belt. At that distance, he’d be gutted before he even knew what was going on. 

The other man didn’t stretch it out any further. He stayed still, patient and cool. Eventually Anakin’s thirst beat out wariness, and he closed the distance in a few steps. Nearing the edge of the bed, plucked the bottle from Obi-Wan’s hand. The man let it go without a fuss and leaned back. Bracing his palms, he settled his weight to stare up from a less severe angle. He almost looked comfortable, like they were years younger. Like nothing had ever happened.

After assuring himself that the man’s hands weren’t near the sabers, he turned the bottle up, baring his throat. He could feel Obi-Wan’s eyes tracking its bob as he gulped. The attention was sharp, and he felt exposed. His stomach tensed, all the muscles of his core preparing him to spring if he had to.

Nothing happened. Obi-Wan just watched him drink, allowing him to drain the bottle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What’s this? Could a settling of nerves be on the horizon? Is Anakin going to relax? Is Kuli? Most importantly: is anyone ever going to listen to Del? Tune in next time to find out!
> 
> [Also, as a note: since we're already off canon, I decided to just let the twins both go to live with Bail and Breha.]


	7. Naboo Market, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this is a bridge chapter, I thought it’d be nice to give everyone a chance to feel each other out. With the emotional time we had last update, we could all use a little breather. Next update kicks right back into the action though, so enjoy the brief downtime. 
> 
> Happy reading, and let me know what y’all think!

They stayed in the capital for three more days, though out of respect for their informant, gave up their room. Knowing she’d been compromised, Obi-Wan didn’t want to keep her waiting on the bill much longer. Depending on how determined the people tailing her were, even a few hours could threaten her life. In any case, keeping the room wasn’t necessary. It wasn’t as though he and Anakin had nowhere to go. 

Their ship wasn’t as comfortable as the inn, but it was livable. It had beds, a shower, and all their belongings. It was also where they were most needed at the moment, since their delay owed to repairs it needed. They’d made it to Pijal in one piece, but both men knew it was a near miss. Three days in hyperspace had destabilized the already weak hull, which now peeled back from its ribbing in several places. It was a miracle they hadn’t caught fire hitting atmo, and they wouldn’t get lucky again. If they wanted the shuttle to be at all space-worthy, it needed serious tuning. 

At the very least, the ray shield generator needed to be fully functional before lift off. If it wasn’t, the vessel would be shredded by solar emissions and its passengers cooked alive. The engine needed flushing, and the ruined hull would have to be patched, soldered, and reinforced. So would the landing gear, as their touchdown on Pijal appeared to be the last it could take. The rickety legs were bent so badly that the ship rested on an off angle, with one of them so close to snapping off that a stiff wind could break the connectors. 

It was, Anakin determined none too kindly, a piece of junk. Obi-Wan couldn’t disagree. The old vessel had been an antique when the Council bought it, and not even the minimum of upkeep had been done on it. While that had been something of a blessing-- it prevented the shuttle from being attractive to thieves-- it was also careless. The oversight, whatever the reason for it, was now his and Anakin’s problem.

He didn’t overturn any of the younger man’s suggestions. Anakin was the gearhead, and as far as Obi-Wan was concerned, he could do whatever he wanted. Provided it didn’t take too long, of course, but Obi-Wan was sure it wouldn’t. The man was efficient, especially when he was avoiding something.

Much to Obi-Wan’s annoyance, that _something_ was currently him.

Their time on the docks wasn't exactly uncomfortable, but the tension was impossible to ignore. It was different from the sort fed by Anakin's earlier suspicion. This was cautious and almost timid, two things his former Padawan hadn’t been since boyhood. The other man avoided eye contact, spoke even less than usual, and spent most of his time working under the floor. When he couldn’t be there, he hammered at the hull for hours, unconcerned with the beating heat of the sun. He gave stilted, half answers to Obi-Wan’s questions, and ate quickly to avoid being stuck at the table. Given his way, Anakin probably would’ve only seen his shipmate at bedtime.

He didn’t need the help of the Force to know what caused the odd shift. Their conversation about Padme and the children had obviously shaken him. Obi-Wan couldn’t fault him for that. He’d never married or been in a formal relationship-- he’d honored the letter of his vows-- but love was natural and unavoidable. He’d outlived enough of his own to know how the man was feeling. He would’ve given anything to spare Anakin that pain. He couldn’t, though. He owed him the truth, however gutting. And it _had_ gutted him. Obi-Wan’s tongue felt like a knife.

The night that Anakin holed up in the ‘fresher, his misery darkened the room. It bled under the door, destabilizing the air, his whimpers shuddering like the kickback of a missile. There’d been so much heat and raw emotion rolling through that Obi-Wan worried it’d break in fingers of lightning. It hadn’t, though. It just lingered, making it hard to breath. His suffering, finally free, had nowhere to go.

It took hours to tamp down enough for the man to come out, and over the course of the following days, it slowly settled. It left something behind, though. Obi-Wan could feel it whenever the two were close. Anakin’s rage had finally fizzled out, which should’ve been a relief. It was what Obi-Wan had been waiting and hoping for. 

It wasn’t though, because now, the other man was afraid.

That wasn’t new, really. The feeling had haunted the younger man all his life. Adept as Anakin had become in the ways of the Force and combat, he’d never been able to free himself of fear. But that had been different. It’d been of unworthiness and failure. He’d never been afraid of a person, least of all Obi-Wan. But he was now, in a latent, vague sort of way. 

It wasn’t an animal reaction to danger. It simmered, keeping Anakin so indistinctly apprehensive that it felt impossible to correct. Where to start, and what to deny first? Would it even help? Likely not, because what Anakin seemed to be waiting for was the drop.

Obi-Wan tried imagining what the man exactly expected; for him to say something nasty, he supposed. And not just that, but something he couldn’t disprove no matter how desperately he’d want to. He was waiting, perhaps, for his old master to admit that he and Padme _had_ been lovers; that she wanted Obi-Wan more and always had, and that she’d come to hate Anakin long before the fight on Mustafar. Untrue, of course. He and Padme had been friends, and he’d loved her, but not like Anakin suspected. Truth didn’t matter, though. What mattered was Anakin’s dread, and what he dreaded was too nebulous to properly combat. 

It was insulting, if Obi-Wan thought about it. He’d never given Anakin a reason to doubt him. But that was Palpatine’s influence, he supposed, and it was apparently strong. Even now, whatever seeds of doubt the Emperor planted were capable of bearing fruit. Every time he spoke, he felt Anakin tense. It was exhausting, and he wanted to be done with it.

But, Anakin had never been easy to convince. Words rarely impacted him in the way they were intended. He heard what he expected, not what was said. The only real way to make an impression was through action. Obi-Wan had over a decade of trial and error, and current frustration aside, he knew that he had to meet Anakin on the ground if he wanted to fix things. 

So, he refused to accept the retreat. He didn't try to corner the man into a conversation, but he followed him through his work circuit each day, silently organizing his life around it. When Anakin was below deck with the wiring and engine, Obi-Wan sat on the edge of the overlook. He let his legs dangle as he read, kicking boyishly and pretending not to notice when he was being stared at. When Anakin was soldering the hull, Obi-Wan knelt in the shade of a wing and either meditated or ran through his exercises. Whichever it was, he stayed catty-corner. That was in part to be sure Anakin never lost a visual on him, but also in the hopes that the man might actually turn to speak. 

He never did, but the option was open.

If it had an effect, it was slow. As repairs wrapped up, Anakin was still speaking in clipped sentences. He was still guarded and doubtful of Obi-Wan's intentions. Still, the older man kept it up. He couldn’t force Anakin to trust him, of course, but he could make it increasingly inconvenient not to. 

Being the only option he had, Obi-Wan took it, hoping the week-long flight would sort things out.

* * *

“You’re doing it again,” Anakin muttered, not looking up from his project.

Obi-Wan started, surprised by the low hum of Anakin’s voice. The man hadn’t spoken in several hours. It’d been a quiet day, like yesterday and the one before. Flights were apparently much longer without conversation.

They’d been on course to Naboo for five days, all of which had been uneventful. The repairs Anakin made were holding up nicely. Nothing in the engine or under the floor rattled, and the shuttle wasn’t shimmying from interference. The only proof that they were moving were the streaks of starlight through the viewports. 

“Doing what?” he asked.

As far as he knew, he’d just been watching Anakin work. The man was hunched at his bench, cobbling together a tracking device he hadn’t made Obi-Wan ask twice for. His shaggy hair fell around his face, flicked aside now and then when it annoyed him. Brow furrowed and mouth parted, his tongue peaked out as his fingers deftly manipulated thin tools. Tiny clinks and the hiss of live wire made ambient noise for Obi-Wan to sink into. Reclining in his own booth just across the hold, he’d been content to do just that. Fully relaxed, he allowed himself the small but distinct pleasure of watching Anakin work with his hands.

The other had good, methodical hands. They were sturdy and familiar with labor. A lifetime of scrapping, repairing, and saber training had given him permanently scuffed knuckles and calloused fingers. His firm grip and rough, usually cut palms concealed the fact that his touch was soft. He wielded weapons and tools alike with a delicate sort of reverence, and when he worked, his thick fingers seemed to dance. His hands were different now, but watching them was no less captivating. His augmented joints and muscles were handsome. The improvements he’d made to the prosthetics made them move almost organically, and the whirring roll of his joints and rod tendons was soothing.

“You were humming,” the other answered, bringing him back to the moment. “Didn’t you notice?”

Obi-Wan blinked. He hadn’t.

“What song?”

Anakin shrugged. 

“I just recognize the tune. You sang it for Ahsoka after she took those hits on Ryloth, and I heard you singing it just before I--” The man frowned down at the table, suddenly unsure. “Maybe not. I could’ve been dreaming. I don’t even think I was even conscious.”

Obi-Wan’s brow shot up. He knew what day the man was talking about.

“No,” he assured. “You’re right. You heard it. I just didn’t realize that you could.”

If Anakin heard that, Obi-Wan shuddered to think what else the other man might be aware of. He’d spent a lot of time pacing in front of that bacta tank, berating and bargaining what he feared would soon be a corpse. Anakin didn’t say anything about that, though. He just hummed, filing the fact away. After a moment, he went back to soldering.

“What’s it in? It’s not in Basic; I know that much.” He paused to flick the hair from his eyes. He was nearly finished sealing the tracker’s twin panels. “And where’d you learn it from?”

The sudden interest was perplexing. The younger man had hardly spoken the entire flight, and Obi-Wan was starting to worry his approach wouldn’t be enough. But maybe it was. Maybe it was paying off, or Anakin was just getting bored. Whatever it was, Obi-Wan wouldn’t waste it.

“It’s Old Alderaanian,” he explained, sitting up straighter in the booth. “Qui-Gon was fluent, and liked the histories and myths of the early humans recorded in it. I spent a good deal of time corralling files for him in the temple library.”

Anakin huffed. “Sounds boring.”

“It was.” Obi-Wan couldn’t keep the conspiratorial mirth from his voice when he added: “ _Hideously._ ”

The other man’s mouth quirked in what might’ve been amusement. That, or satisfaction at finishing his solder. With the panels fully sealed, he deactivated his tool and laid it down to cool. Taking the puck in hand, he pressed a few buttons and fired up a diagnostic. The central panel blinked several times before going dark, then a smaller ring around it began to flash. Frowning, Anakin waited for it to stop before picking up another tool. Careful not to ruin his solder, he tapped the new seam, working around it in a circle.

“Can’t have been that bad. You learned it anyway.”

“Not on purpose, and not perfectly.” Obi-Wan drew his knees up tighter, weaving his fingers over his shins. “But enough to translate things I thought were actually interesting.”

The younger man hummed in a compulsory sort of engagement. Willing to wait him out, Obi-Wan watched him finish knocking. After completing the circuit, Anakin compressed the center button. This time when it finished blinking, the outer ring didn’t flash. His annoyed expression softened and he set the device down, wiping his hands before glancing aside.

“You still haven’t said what it’s about.”

Satisfied that he had the man’s full attention, Obi-Wan picked the thread back up.

“It’s a dirge, supposedly written for a queen named Biyu, though whether or not she was real is up for debate. There are few records from that time, and the ones we have are laced with myth. It's possibly just a fable, but it’s still interesting.”

“I'm sure it is,” Anakin drawled. “For people that actually get to hear it.”

Obi-Wan concealed a grin. The man had never been good with stories. As a Padawan, Anakin annoyed many instructors by trying to guess the ends. He'd have never survived Qui-Gon's rambling tutelage. 

"It’s mostly an account of the battle she was killed in. At the time, Biyu was apparently on a campaign and had absorbed ten other tribes without pushback. When she finally met some, however, things took a turn. A rival chief met her in single combat and managed to land a hit. He impaled her with his pike, and left her body to be found by her generals."

Anakin turned to face Obi-Wan's booth. Leaning his back against the wall, he brought his legs up. He stretched them out across the seat, crossing his long legs at the ankles.

"Sounds like a territory dispute to me." 

“Of a sort,” Obi-Wan allowed. "Though I'd probably call it expansionism."

“What’s the difference?” Anakin’s hand found the desk. Bare metal fingers plucked up a stray tool, and he threaded it through the digits. "It’s a petty way to go down, in any case."

"Her people would disagree. Judging by the song’s poetic nature, it’s safe to guess they thought it was romantic." The corner's of his eyes crinkled. "Some of the lines are terribly graphic. One of the more memorable goes something like: ‘and the stink of enemy dead bloomed from the field like flowers’."

Anakin scrunched his nose, but the disgust was badly affected. Obi-Wan knew what type of stories the other liked. 

"That's a little blue for you, isn't it?" the man asked.

In another life, it would've been a tease. He would've flashed his teeth and laughed, the sound so nearly mean that only Obi-Wan would've known better. His tone was flat now, though, missing the warmth of a good ribbing. It was the ghost of an interaction, but Obi-Wan lapped it up anyway. However Anakin intended it, it felt like progress.

"I used to be almost as hot-blooded as you. If you'd been born earlier, we would’ve made a terrible team." Anakin canted his head, trying to guess at whose expense Obi-Wan made that call. The older man continued before he could decide. "But that's never been the part I like best.”

Anakin allowed the redirect. "Are you planning on telling me today? Or is this some kind of lecture series?"

Obi-Wan didn't bite the hook. Instead, he carried on like the other hadn’t spoken at all.

"The few stanzas after the battle are the nicest. They tell about Biyu’s people coming together to mourn. They sing about her prowess, charm, and beauty, and the deep, communal pain felt from her loss." He called up the image he’d always had of the queen: strong body, grim mouth, and powerful aura. Then he imagined her on a pyre, and felt an echo of the sadness he often felt remembering Qui-Gon's funeral. "None of the previous rulers dating back centuries were even half as popular. She wasn't above her people; she was their steady, loving center. They thought she was a hero, and having to bury her broke their hearts."

Obi-Wan had often wondered if Biyu’s age had any bearing on the severity of their sadness. Accepting the song as fact, she wouldn’t have been much older than Anakin when she died. If she was real, it was a terrible waste.

Anakin palmed the tool he’d been twisting before guessing: “They loved her.”

“How couldn’t they? She was like a sister. She fought, sweated, and bled alongside them. They trusted her with their lives, and would’ve been happy to follow her anywhere. Unfortunately, she’d finally gone somewhere they couldn’t.”

The younger man’s grip tightened around the tool. It gave a strained little creak. Obi-Wan could feel his emotions beginning to leak; he’d never been good at hiding them. Frail curls of longing twisted out from where he sat, moving through the cabin like smoke. Obi-Wan let them. He didn’t remind Anakin to guard his heart. He didn’t have a right to. These days, he could hardly manage his own.

“Yea,” Anakin said after a while. “That does sound like Snips.”

Obi-Wan bit his cheek hard enough to taste metal. He didn’t say who he thought it sounded like.

* * *

Obi-Wan's voice filtered through a haze. _Are you awake?_ , Anakin heard the man say. He didn't answer, though. He didn't have the energy. Besides, he wasn't awake. Not exactly. 

He wasn’t totally asleep either. He was lucid enough to feel his stiff mattress, and could smell the nerve cream he’d smeared thinly over his thighs as a test of its potency. It tingled damaged tissue and dried cold and tacky. It felt filthy and familiar. He thought of a boy. Someone else’s Padawan. What was his name? Anakin couldn’t remember.

He slipped out of the moment and into the shallows of a dream. He saw Ahsoka on a battlefield he didn’t recognize. There were mountains in the distance and the air smelled like salt. There was an ocean nearby, but the brine was washed over with the heady stink of war.

An army of droidekas and B1s were closing in. She wasn’t alone, but the beings around her were shadows. Only Ahsoka stood out, her chest plated with armor he’d only ever read about in histories. She had a sword in one hand-- a real, metal one-- and in the other, some sort of blaster. The kind that shot slugs instead of plasma; another relic. Something that hadn’t been used in a thousand years.

She fought through the surge, hacking metal bodies. They came apart, exposing circuits and plugs. They didn’t spurt lubricant, though. They gushed blood like organic beings, and it splattered Ahsoka’s face and lekku. She bared her teeth in a predatory hiss, ignoring the blood that got in her mouth. She was cutting towards someone she’d marked as an enemy, and didn’t care what she tasted on the way up.

 _Well, that’s alright._ Obi’s voice came again. It floated from somewhere over the mountains. _I was just thinking._

The sound blew away on a wind that kicked up a hot, gorey stench. There were bodies everywhere. Ahsoka was leaving a trail, and the shadows marching after her were getting gummed up. They stumbled over clankers, bottle-necked by carnage. She was getting too far ahead for them to cover her, but she kept moving, weapons swivelling to level more droids as she sprinted toward her target.

Anakin rolled his neck away from the scene. It fell away as he nuzzled his flat pillow. He took a deep breath of scrubbed, recycled air and felt Obi-Wan’s attention perk. 

He didn’t open his eyes to see how close the man was. He didn’t have to. He could sense him in the Force. He was between their beds, getting ready to climb into his own. It had to be late. The dark was heavy, even through Anakin’s eyelids. All the lights were down, and the only sound was the rustle of Obi-Wan undressing.

_Anakin?_

He ignored the call, dropping back into the dream. The room around him gave way to muted chaos. The clang and backfire of weapons seemed so far away. So did Ahsoka, who’d just reached the top of a hill. A huge, shadowy figure was waiting for her there. Her enemy. The one who’d kill her. He knew this song.

 _I wish you would’ve told me._ Obi-Wan’s voice was mournful. He sounded old, and hurt, and raw. _I would’ve helped you leave. I would’ve done anything._

Ahsoka’s enemy took his opening and pierced her gut.

* * *

When they landed on Naboo, it was early afternoon. The planet was in its spring, and the sun was mild. The fields they flew over were green, and the tops of every hill were clustered with wildflowers and grazing shaak. The lake encircling House Naberrie’s island estate glittered, as did the thundering falls that bordered Theed. The low domes and spires of the city were as bright and inviting as Anakin remembered them being. It was beautiful; everything was, even the dismal swamps. He remembered thinking fondly that, if he’d grown up here, he’d never leave. That might still be true. He’d formed a connection to this place.

Touching down still felt like desecrating a tomb. He could feel Padme’s ghost everywhere: in the fields, forests, and especially lake country. Anakin supposed he should be grateful that Obi-Wan hadn’t wanted to hide there. The capital wasn’t much better, though. As they walked it, testing the climate, Anakin was almost overwhelmed by the lingering mourning. Though it'd been months, it seemed like she'd died yesterday. 

As a member of a prominent family, former queen, and lifelong politician, Padme had racked up hundreds of admirers. Anakin knew that, but hadn’t understood the scale until he found himself wandering through memorials. The remnants of her funeral procession were everywhere. Little shrines of flowers, fabrics, and gifts dotted the streets. Many people covered their hair or wore dark ribbons for mourning, and a large fountain topped with a carving of her was under construction. When they found that, Obi-Wan let him stand and stare a while. It wasn’t finished, but the artist was done with her face. They’d given her a kind smile, friendly eyes, and cheeks so inviting that Anakin had to clench his fist to keep from touching.

“If you need more time,” Obi-Wan muttered, when he began to back away.

“I don’t,” he assured, cutting him off. “I need to do something.”

And that was true. He didn’t like that they’d come, but if they had to, he wanted to be useful. Otherwise, all he’d have to do was think, and he didn’t want to think about what had happened here. 

They’d both sneaked away from their duties often enough to be alone in the city. He’d kissed her in most of the winding, painted alleys, late at night when it was too dark for them to be seen. Pressing her back against the wall, he’d worry her lip and taste her tongue, raking his fingers along her ribs to feel her shudder. Then they’d break apart, heads swimming with the first churns of arousal, and trip off to some back alley cantina. They’d drink and talk for hours, safe in the knowledge no one would find them there. Sometimes, when he was brave, he’d touch her under the table. Her thighs, so soft and pliant, spread more in tease than invitation. He missed that. He missed _her_.

He couldn’t afford to think about it. 

He had an objective now, and he was grateful. So much of the last few months would’ve been more bearable if he’d had work. Now that he did, he wanted to get started. He wanted to do things, not have them be done to him.

Keeping Obi-Wan close, Anakin snaked them through the city, taking navigational lead. The other man allowed it, but every few blocks would stop them to consult the maps they’d been given. He and Anakin used the reference points they crossed to locate Kleffi and his thugs’ various hideouts, all which seemed to be hostels or cantinas with hidden back rooms for seedy dealings. Two were near the Parnelli Museum, but the rest were scattered around Theed University and the spaceport. They were high traffic areas, where comings and goings were easily missed. The fact probably put Kleffi’s dealers at ease.

After mapping routes to each location, he and Obi-Wan made for Palace Plaza. There, they set up at a bench and began arguing over their plan. Hoods up and voices low, they butted heads for nearly two hours before tentatively settling on a solution. They decided to visit each location over the next several nights, starting with the one closest to wherever they found lodging. They’d visit them in a round until they found Kleffi’s men. When they did, Obi-Wan would pass them both off as interested buyers. Assuming it went well, they’d establish contact with the Gungan and gain access to his stores in about a week. With any luck, they’d also find their target dealer in the process, and be able to place a tracker on his ship and follow him at their leisure.

Hearing it said out loud, even in Obi-Wan’s confident lilt, made Anakin uncomfortably aware of how much hinged on luck. There were too many moving parts. Depending on how old the informant’s intel was, there was a chance that they wouldn’t even be looking in the right places. And if they were, who could say that the code words didn’t change periodically? If Kenobi fed old lines, they’d be suspected, and their chances of meeting the Gungan quietly would be slashed in half. When he pointed that out, however, Obi-Wan just shrugged.

“You worry too much.” He drummed his fingers on the seat. “It’ll work or it won’t. Either way, we’ll be getting what we came for.”

Anakin didn’t doubt that. Stealth wasn’t the only option, but he didn’t like the idea of storming Kleffi’s storehouse. He hadn’t had a chance to start experimenting with his arm yet. Making the tracker had eaten up too much time. If he and Kenobi couldn’t get in by posing as buyers, they’d have to take what they wanted by force. That’d be easy for Obi-Wan; he had two sabers as well as his abilities. While Anakin had the latter, he’d be easier to shoot without a weapon.

Sensing the thought, Obi-Wan made a placating gesture. 

“It’ll be fine. Has it ever not been?” He waited a beat, giving Anakin a chance to object. When he didn’t, the man smiled cautiously. “I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but you have to trust me.”

The man was right. He didn’t want to hear it.

“I’ll think about it,” he muttered, crossing his arms. “Just get us a room.”

* * *

Deep in the jungle, still twelve hours from their target, Kuli, Lars, and Del made camp. The thick understory had gotten too dark to navigate safely, and they were exhausted. At least, Kuli was.

It’d been a while since she’d walked for four days straight. In another life, it would’ve been nothing. The rations she and her team were living off of weren’t great, though, and it was difficult to leech the necessary energy. Her body had been weakened by the poor diet, long confinement, and general stress that went along with being in hiding. She couldn’t remember the last time she slept well; certainly not since Obi-Wan dragged that brat back into their lives.

She scowled. She didn’t want to think about Skywalker. Whenever she did, it kicked up a storm of unsavory emotion. Hate, anger, confusion, shame-- she didn’t like how he made her feel. She _also_ didn’t like how she was the group anomaly. If anyone else was so affected, it didn’t show. Obi-Wan and Del actually seemed to like the boy; with Obi-Wan, that was easier to understand. They had history, and Kenobi had always had a tender heart. Why Del had gotten so cozy, though, she couldn’t guess. Lars wasn’t like them, but he also wasn’t like her. He remained cautiously indifferent. 

She felt like the only one with sense, and it was frustrating.

Pushing the thought aside, she busied herself by starting a fire. It was risky this close to the base, but the canopy was thick. It was unlikely that smoke would break through the treetops, and even if it did, the night was moonless. She doubted anyone would see it. Carefully arranging sticks and the woody detritus from various plants, she knocked her flint to kick up sparks. It took a while for any to catch. The tinder was dry, but the air was muggy from recent rain. The few days they’d spent planetside had been clear, but under her knees, the dirt was still damp.

“You want caf?”

Kuli started, nearly dropping her flint. It was just Del, her mind registered seconds later, and she cussed. 

“Don’t scare me,” she snipped, in lieu of an answer.

When she turned, the older man was crouched next to the burn pile. He was barely three feet from her side. How hadn’t she noticed? He was staring, expression unreadable, over the glow of newly lit tinder. He looked ancient and otherworldly in the shadows. His gaze was so steady that Kuli wondered if he was rifling undetected through her mind. Looking for-- she didn’t know what. An answer to a question he didn’t want to ask, maybe, and the vague possibility made her anxious. She felt around for him, combing for his familiar current, but she didn’t find it. She was alone in her head. Still, before speaking, she redoubled her defenses.

“Sorry,” she muttered, not really meaning it. She was annoyed that he’d managed to sneak up. “This place makes me jumpy.”

“And reflective.” Before she could ask what he meant, he carried on. “It was on Kashyyyk, wasn’t it? Where it happened.” He looked around, eyes scanning the trees. “Another jungle.”

She grit her teeth. Another jungle, indeed, only this one wasn’t covered in blood yet.

“You said something about caf.”

The older man hummed. “There’s still enough for two. Lars didn’t want any, but we could heat it if you do.”

“That’d be nice. It gets cold here at night.”

It’d help keep her awake, too. She didn’t want to sleep. Del wasn’t wrong. The trees made her think of Kashyyyk.

Dropping out of a crouch, Del crossed his legs and scooted closer. From out of his rucksack, he pulled the small, collapsible rack. They’d been using it to cook with, and he set it up over the fire before digging around in his bag again for the canteen. When he found it, he balanced it carefully over the flame. It’d take a while to warm up. The fire was still fresh, and none of the flames had blue cores yet. That wouldn’t come until all of the kindling caught.

While they waited, and while Lars finished clearing a space for their sleep sacks, Kuli allowed her mind to wander through the trees. She tried plotting a course, planning for path blocks, weather, and any scouting team the Jedi Killer might have stationed nearer the base. She ran through disaster scenarios, tried imagining how many men this particular person might have at their disposal. 

She pictured white helmets stained with war paint, then shook her head. No. The clones wouldn’t be here. This _wasn’t_ Kashyyyk.

“What are you thinking?” Del asked.

His voice was velvety smooth. Kuli wanted to lean in and let it swaddle her.

“Does it matter?” she asked instead, and heard Del sigh, almost sadly.

She didn’t look at him. She kept her eyes on the trees. This was a nice clearing, full of shrubs, smooth stones, and level ground. It was almost as nice as the one she and Farrah had been camped at, which was perfect, until the exact moment it wasn’t.

A stick snapped in the fire, breaking under the strain of heat, and Kuli remembered the crunch of boots at her back. She hadn’t turned around. Why would she? She knew who was there, and she’d have trusted those men with their blaster barrels shoved against her neck. And she’d been distracted, anyway. She’d been making a plan, going over a map on her datapad. Farrah wasn’t distracted, though. She felt something Kuli hadn’t, or maybe just saw the Troopers leveling their blasters. Whatever it was, she didn’t even waste the time it would’ve taken to scream or ignite her saber. She’d just thrown herself between her master and their shots. Which was brave, and selfless, and so kriffing _stupid_.

Del nudged the canteen with his knuckle, spinning it to even out the heat. Kuli sniffed and cleared her throat, but refused the paw at her eyes. She didn’t want it to be any more obvious that she was crying.

“It wasn’t your fault,” the man said softly. “It wasn’t mine, or Lars’, or Obi-Wan’s. It wasn’t even Anakin’s. Palpatine’s plans were his own, and they always have been.” 

He paused, digging through his bag again. When he came out, he was holding two cups. Carefully plucking the canteen out of the heat, he divided the contents and passed a steaming helping to Kuli. She took it with a nod and cupped it to her chest. It felt warm, like holding a hand.

“There was nothing you could do.”

“I know,” she said dully.

But she was still so angry that it burned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay safe out there!


	8. Naboo Market, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone has been staying safe and healthy xx We’re currently in lock down, which blows but is giving me more time to write. Hope y’all enjoy the update! As always, let me know what y’all think.

When he was Qui-Gon's Padawan, Obi-Wan used to play a game. Not a real one, but one he’d made up, and truthfully more out of necessity than for fun. He called it: _How can I spin this for the Council?_

Qui-Gon's methods rarely met with the Council’s approval. At least, not from all of them at once. Yoda tended to be more lenient, or else liked playing devil’s advocate. The general consensus, however, tended not to be in Master Jinn’s favor. Often, Obi-Wan found himself in a position to defend his master's choices. Which was awkward, as he usually didn't approve either. The older man’s boldness always seemed to get them in trouble. 

He’d been a wilful youngling. He disregarded rules, annoyed caretakers, and made such a mess of things that there’d been concern no master would have him. When he’d been accepted by Qui-Gon, he’d honestly been stunned. Their partnership, though, seemed to be the will of the Force. The older man’s disregard for rules instilled a love of them in Obi-Wan. As a result, they often butted heads and misunderstood each other. That rarely prevented him from defending Qui-Gon, though.

He could usually find something to say, though it was a dance he’d have rather not engaged in. He wasn’t as fond of crossing swords with the Council as Qui-Gon was. In fact, he wasn’t fond of most of the things his master was. The older he got, the more Obi-Wan realized they were nothing alike. He revered and respected Qui-Gon, but they weren’t slated to agree. That wasn’t bad, necessarily, but made advocating for him difficult.

All that seemed to have been preparing him for this exact moment. As he approached the second seediest bar he’d ever seen, intent on spending some of his dwindling credits on alcohol, he thought to himself: _How would I spin this for the Council?_

It was only the second seediest because he and Anakin had just left the first. That one, three blocks down from the well-lit Parnelli, had been in a cantina dustier than an ash-rabbit hole. The floor was unfinished and most of the chairs wobbled dangerously; the ones that didn’t were piled and broken in a corner. The single barback was an old Lepi with notched ears and matted cheek tufts who was so drunk that he could hardly take orders. The small room stank of stale drink, but thankfully with none of their targets there, he and Anakin weren’t obligated to stay long.

After that, Obi-Wan led his charge-- or was he a partner now? Either way, he led Anakin to the second haunt, praying the entire walk for it to be cleaner. He’d gotten half his wish, at least. The booth he ushered Anakin into once inside had been scrubbed recently. From where he stood next to it though, Obi-Wan could see the back bar was stained, and the floor was so tacky that his boots stuck to it. The clientele, while more numerous, wasn’t a better sort than at the first bar. All the patrons looked criminal beyond a doubt. A cursory glance didn’t turn up any of the ones he was after, but that was alright. It was early, after all.

Leaving Anakin at the booth, Obi-Wan approached the bar, reaching out through the Force and willing the bodies ahead to part. They did what he wanted, responding instinctively to the tug. Most didn’t even register it, though some of the beings’ noses scrunched up. They looked like they’d been bitten by something small and irritating. None of them were trained, however, so he met no more resistance. They all moved aside to make room at the bar, which Obi-Wan slotted into quickly. Once pressed against it, he hailed a barman and ordered pints. He begrudgingly exchanged a few credits for the glasses then hurried back, careful not to slosh as he weaved through the crowd that’d closed back in.

That was what was really throwing a wrench in things: the credits. How would he justify such waste? He could picture the Council now, ringed around him and waiting, brows uniformly quirked as he tried to explain. 

_You see, Masters_ , he imagined himself saying, _we had to drink. We were patrolling cantinas, and not doing so would've made us look out of place. Why not **also** pay the innkeeper where we’re staying? Well, we might do. That depends on how much is left when the mission is over._

If he was honest, he didn’t really think there’d be enough to pay the innkeeper, a fact that he was terribly sorry for. The woman who gave them the room was clearly used to honorable patrons. She hadn’t even asked for a downpayment. He hoped that he and Anakin would be able to leave something, but there were only two hundred credits left from the Pantoran. Theed was expensive; two hundred wouldn’t pay for a night in a hat box.

Being undercover was more difficult without the temple bankroll.

“Tell me that’s not the same Jawa piss you bought last time,” Anakin scowled as Obi-Wan set their glasses down. 

“I’m afraid it is.” He half shrugged. “Though, in fairness, the last pints were only so bad because they’d gone stale.”

He nudged one of the glasses across the table, avoiding the notches cut into its face. Anakin quirked a brow but took it in hand, lifting the drink for a mistrustful sniff. Seconds later, his nose crinkled.

“You got conned, old man. They brew this trash stale.”

“Perhaps you’d like to get a job, then, and pay for something better yourself.”

Anakin rolled his eyes before taking a healthy gulp. Obi-Wan supposed it was meant as a gesture of good will. The man’s throat worked, thick apple bobbing, and Obi-Wan swallowed reflexively as he watched it dip. When he’d had his fill, Anakin grunted and smacked the glass down, popping his lips in displeasure. He licked bitter foam from them before speaking again.

“So, how long should we stay at this one?” He looked around, picking through the crowd for any of the faces Obi-Wan had shown him pictures of. “Offhand, I don’t see anyone, but the museums aren’t even closed yet. Something tells me Kleffi’s thugs aren’t early bulabirds.”

That was probably true. Obi-Wan had been overeager while rushing Anakin through getting ready. It was barely dark when they left the inn, and they’d only stayed an hour at the first cantina. With it only just now being half nine, they’d have to linger a while. Which meant, unfortunately, at least one more beer. Obi-Wan grimaced as he took a considerate sip. Anakin was right; the drink was garbage. He wouldn’t admit it, though.

“Two hours, at least,” he said, dabbing his lips dry instead of lapping them. “If you think you can stand being here that long.”

The younger man gave a derisive snort. “I’ll survive. Not sure about you, though.”

Obi-Wan stiffened. “What about me?”

Anakin drummed his fingers. Even through his gloves, their metal tips clicked. It reminded Obi-Wan of the snap of an alien mandible.

“I just don’t think you could look more uncomfortable if you tried.”

Heat twinged Obi-Wan’s cheeks and he turned his face away. While he appreciated that Anakin had given up stonewalling, he didn’t like that the man had fallen back on mocking him. His former Padawan had always been good at that. He seemed to instinctively know what to say to either embarrass or frustrate Obi-Wan, and just now, he’d done both. In part, that was because Obi-Wan didn’t like how stiff the words made him sound. The other, larger part, though, was because Obi-Wan knew the assessment was accurate.

How packed the cantina was made him feel exposed. He hadn’t spent so much time in a crowd since going underground, and couldn’t help but worry that he and Anakin would be recognized. It was unlikely, but the possibility still made him nervous. If they were caught, they’d have to leave Naboo immediately, and he didn’t want to lose their only leads.

Across the table, Anakin bristled. His easy slouch went rigid and he rocked his shoulders against the back of the booth. He rolled his neck like he was working out a sudden tension.

“Would you relax?” he hissed. “I can’t concentrate with you panicking.”

The pinch in Obi-Wan’s shoulders slacked a little at that. Was it obvious? Was he fidgeting that badly? Or was it something else, something beyond the physical? That was a tantalizing possibility. He and Anakin had always shared a Force-bond-- a byproduct of their longstanding intimate relationship-- and it wasn’t uncommon for emotions or thoughts to pass between them. Or rather, it used to not be. Since waking from his coma, Anakin had been cut off. Initially, that was probably to do with his health. Now that he was recovered, though, Obi-Wan knew it was intentional. The younger man had been purposefully shutting him out. 

Obi-Wan was still able to discern general moods due to how Anakin projected. As to what the other was thinking, however, he couldn’t guess; the few times he’d tried to breach Anakin’s defenses, he’d met with steely resistance. It was equally impossible to send his own feelings or thoughts through, which was frustrating, as words often failed these days. Communicating with Anakin had gotten even more difficult, and not having their bond to lean on left Obi-Wan feeling helpless. This, though-- could it mean that Anakin had opened himself? Obi-Wan’s heart leaped into his mouth at the thought, but he didn’t test it. He didn’t want to frighten the man. It was likely to clam him back up.

Instead, he fell back on a breathing exercise and willed his mind to be still. He reminded himself that whatever was coming was out of his hands, and worrying about it would only lead to distraction. Forcing an exhale, he spread his knees under the table and leaned back, mirroring Anakin’s pose. He plucked up his glass and eyed the dwindling, pale head of foam.

“What were you concentrating on?” he asked in lieu of what he wanted to.

He took a quick gulp and grimaced. The beer was thin, dry, and sour, and worse maybe than even the grossest he’d ever had on Pijal.

“The crowd,” Anakin muttered, not taking his attention off it. “I’m listening.”

“To what?”

“Whatever I can.”

That wasn’t helpful, but Obi-Wan sensed he wouldn't get more out of him. Anakin’s full attention was on his task. His mouth made a grim line, and the creases at the corners of his eyes cut deep in concentration. Now and then he raised his glass for a sip, but it was mechanical. He didn’t even seem to realize he was drinking. Muscle memory guided the action. His mind was clearly elsewhere, and Obi-Wan was content to let it wander. 

Secure in the knowledge that Anakin was distracted, Obi-Wan allowed himself to observe the younger man openly. While nursing his own drink, he watched Anakin’s head make fractional turns, eyes darting around the room feverishly. He scanned the face of every newcomer thoroughly and perked every few minutes at some overheard conversation. He was spying, and not just on those close enough to hear naturally. Obi-Wan could feel him reaching out with his power to pass through minds.

 _Careful,_ he thought, testing his theory on their bond.

Anakin’s eyes lighted on him momentarily before skipping away again. It was the only indication that the man had heard.

* * *

They didn’t find anyone on the first, second, or third night. On the fourth, though, their luck took a turn. At half one in the morning, in the back of a cantina by the spaceport, Anakin kicked him under the table.

“Turn around.”

With a barely detectable jerk of his chin, Anakin indicated to spot at the bar. Obi-Wan waited a few seconds, pretending to be absorbed in a whirlpool he’d made in his drink. After it spun out, he sat the glass down and mimed a stretch. Rolling the motion through, he peered over his shoulder to scan the bar. A dozen people were gathered there, some sitting and others crammed into the bench seat. Most had been there for hours, but one face in particular was new. Obi-Wan caught sight of it over an old man’s graying head, and the pattern of scarring was the same he’d been studying for nearly two weeks. Nema may as well have crawled through his datapad screen.

“I see our friend made it to town,” Obi-Wan said, turning back.

Anakin hummed. “Looks like he just got here, too. Did you see his duffel bag?” Obi-Wan nodded. “He’s fresh off the ship. He hasn’t even gotten a room yet.”

He couldn’t have, Obi-Wan agreed, because the bag he carried wasn’t manageable. Slung over the man’s thick shoulders, it was stuffed to bulging, and whenever he turned it smacked against someone around him. It was unwieldy, and the only reason to still be lugging it around was that he didn’t have anywhere to store it yet. If that was the case, it had to be that the cantina was between his ship and inn suite. Following the thought through:

“He must be docked legally at the port.”

“Why wouldn’t he be? He’s just a trader, right?” Anakin smiled wryly, and for a moment it was so much like his old grin that Obi-Wan almost returned it. But then it twisted, reflecting something of Palpatine. “What kind of ship does he have, again?”

“A decommissioned _Nu_ -class transport.” Obi-Wan fumbled through his pocket for his datapad. He fired it up and opened Nema’s lengthy file, scrolling until he found the image of his ship. He passed it to Anakin, continuing as the younger man scanned it. “He’s likely made other modifications, but the most obvious is what he’s done to the paint. The usual accents are now two separate shades of green. His clan colors, maybe, or some sort of gang mark.”

Anakin tapped the image to enlarge it. Brow furrowed, he dragged it all around the screen, examining the hull from several angles for additional details. When he found one, he flipped the pad around.

“What’s this?” he asked, tapping aft of the port side wing.

Obi-Wan squinted. “I’m not sure. It looks like an animal insignia. A veermok, maybe. It could also be a gang mark.”

Anakin nodded. “That’s what I was thinking.”

“Is it important?”

Obi-Wan supposed it could be. If Nema _was_ part of a gang, some of its members might also be involved. He was alone now, and their informant hadn’t mentioned any partners, but that could mean she simply didn’t know about them. Nema and his affiliates might hunt separately, or else they were permanently stationed at the base. If that was the case, infiltration would be more difficult. Who knew what sort of fire power they had.

If Anakin was thinking the same, it didn’t show. He shrugged the question off.

“Not really.” Plucking his glass from the table, he brought it to rest against his collar. “I was just curious. Knowing that something's painted there at all is all I'm really going to need.”

Obi-Wan canted his head. “When?”

“When I go looking.”

“For what?”

“The ship,” Anakin drawled sarcastically. “Or did you have me build that tracker for nothing?” 

Absently, Anakin stroked the glass along his collar. It parted his shirt, allowing him to spread condensation over the bone. Liquid glistened in its wake, and Obi-Wan’s attention snagged there, lingering a moment before he forced his eyes up. 

“Of course I didn’t,” he muttered. “But I didn’t expect him to dock in Theed Spaceport. Planting a tracker there--”

“Isn’t going to be a problem.” Anakin dragged the glass back towards his throat, enjoying the cool. “My bet is he’s parked somewhere out of sight, probably in one of the back sectors with minimal surveillance. I’m sure he’s got more than one reason to not want his cargo inspected.”

That was probably true, but Obi-Wan still didn’t like the idea. If Anakin was seen, it’d be difficult to explain why he was there. He didn’t have a ship or any sort of identification.

“If you’re caught--”

“I won’t be.”

“But if you _are_.”

“Then I’ll handle it.” That uncomfortable smile tugged at his mouth again. It was self-amused, alien, and mean. Something glinted in his eyes that Obi-Wan didn’t recognize. “I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but you have to trust me.”

He pitched his voice up, mimicking Obi-Wan’s words and accent with such ease that it made the other man suspicious. How often had he done that, and with who? Ahsoka? Rex? Regardless, it made Obi-Wan’s cheeks flare hot. The flush must’ve been visible even in the poor lighting, because Anakin barked a quick, chilly laugh. Raising his glass, he downed the last of his drink before standing.

“Don’t go anywhere. This won’t take long.”

It occurred to him a full ten minutes later than it should've that letting Anakin go alone was a mistake. Not because the man couldn't handle a fight if necessary, but because he might not go to the spaceport at all. Their own ship was docked outside of Theed in an abandoned shipyard. It'd take an hour for Anakin to reach it, but he had a head start. He could beat Obi-Wan there, steal the shuttle, and leave him stranded.

The thought of being marooned clobbered Obi-Wan’s throat.

Naboo wasn’t a wasteland, but he’d have as hard of a time getting off of it alone as he would a primal world. He had few credits, no way of contacting his team, and nothing to trade. If Anakin wanted, he could throw Obi-Wan to the Loth-Wolves.

 _No_ , he thought, washing the thought away with a swig of beer. He was being paranoid, which wasn’t helpful or even fair. It wasn’t as though this was Anakin’s first opportunity. At any point while Obi-Wan was sleeping, the man could’ve sneaked out of their window. He could’ve also ducked out of any one of the cantinas they’d been to while Obi-Wan was at the bar or in the bathroom. There’d been a dozen chances for the other to run, but he hadn’t taken any of them yet. He’d just waited, looking bored at whatever table Obi-Wan picked, and that couldn’t be an accident. Nothing ever was.

For the sake of their relationship-- regardless of whether or not it’d ever be whole--, Obi-Wan had to believe that they were building trust. He’d asked for it so often over the last several months, and now it was his turn to give it. Anakin wasn’t a prisoner or slave; he was a partner. He had skills it’d be irresponsible not to take advantage of, especially when he’d already begun to prove himself. He’d piloted, helped plot courses, and acted as guide. More importantly, he stayed in bed each night. He hadn’t tried to sneak out or throttle Obi-Wan in his sleep, so why shouldn’t he be allowed to work alone? He knew _Nu_ -class transports stern to bow, and planting a tracker was a one-man job. It made sense. It was practical. It was what teams did.

_Teams where one partner hasn’t violently maimed the other._

He took another swig of beer and checked the time. Thirty minutes had passed. Walking briskly, it should’ve taken five to reach the spaceport. Even in the furthest back corner of the cantina, Obi-Wan could see its lights. The station dominated this sector and never powered down. Beings of all sorts moved through day and night. Accounting for traffic and security, it was likely that Anakin was only just now reaching the ship. It’d probably take five more minutes for the tracker to be placed and activated, and up to another thirty for him to return.

All that added up to just over an hour, which was also how long he’d need to reach their shuttle. Thinking that, Obi-Wan’s gut knotted painfully.

 _Trust him_ , he pleaded with himself. And he wanted to. He remembered how good it used to feel to rely on Anakin. 

Their connection ran deeper than any Obi-Wan had ever known. Whether they were in separate rooms or on different planets was irrelevant, because Obi-Wan knew he could trust Anakin to do what was needed. But he didn’t know that now. Not really. He wanted to believe, but there wasn’t any real reason to hope. They’d wounded each other terribly, and what Anakin helped set in motion had crushed the only thing Obi-Wan ever believed to be permanent.

He checked the time again-- forty-five minutes. Uncomfortably close. There was only frothy foam left in his glass. Wanting something to fuss with, Obi-Wan hailed a barman. One of the young men hopped the counter and jogged over, a little too eager. As he approached, splitting the crowd, Obi-Wan scented warmth. It rolled out in front of the boy, who looked to be a few years younger than Anakin. He was a pup, and grinning in that boyish, amorous way. As he neared the table, Obi-Wan tried adopting a fatherly demeanor.

"Two more, please," he said, gesturing to the empty glasses.

The boy looked to Anakin's abandoned seat before giving Obi-Wan what he must've thought was a knowing smirk.

"You sure? Looks like your friend stepped out."

"Only for a minute."

The boy shook his head. "More like fifty."

Obi-Wan's carefully set smile flattened. Had the boy been watching that closely? Had anyone else? His eyes darted to the bar, checking Nema's position-- but no. That particular nuisance was slowly getting drunk.

"I wouldn't worry," Obi-Wan said, relaxing somewhat. "He'll be along."

He nodded to the glasses again and the young man shrugged.

"If you say so,” he teased, stacking the cups. “It’s your money, but I see this every night. Guy like that is probably three bars over by now, feeding the same lines to someone else."

Obi-Wan briefly considered asking what sort of guy he thought Anakin looked like. Before he could, however, the boy pressed on.

"It’s his loss, if you ask me, and if you don't mind me saying--"

"He does,” came Anakin’s voice suddenly. “He's just too polite to tell you."

At the interruption, both Obi-Wan and the barman tensed. They craned their necks, peering over the high back of the booth. Anakin was a few feet back from it, one hand on his hip and brow cocked curiously. His whole body was canted in amusement, and Obi-Wan wondered how long he'd been watching. A while, probably. Insufferable thing, but at least he'd finally intervened.

After giving the barman a long, indecipherable look, Anakin sauntered by him to slip into the booth. He retook his place across the table from Obi-Wan before speaking again.

“You can do what he asked now. I’m done airing out my lines.”

The boy’s cheeks popped with color, and without looking at either of them he snatched the glasses up and scurried away. When he was out of earshot, Obi-Wan sighed heavily.

“That wasn’t nice.”

"What?" Anakin snorted. “Did I interrupt your date?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. That poor boy is younger than you.”

Something about that answer made the man’s brow pinch. Before Obi-Wan could ask what, however, their drinks arrived. A different man brought them, for which Obi-Wan was grateful. By the time he'd dropped them off and left, Anakin had moved on.

“Sorry about the wait,” he said, breathing out heavily. “Security was tighter than I expected.”

“Were you seen?”

Anakin took up his glass, shaking his head. “The tracker isn’t going to be either. I wedged it in one of the aft landing struts. No one ever thinks to look there.” 

Certainly not when they weren’t expecting to need to. And Nema didn't. As far as he knew, this trip was standard. 

That, paired with the fact that Anakin had actually returned, set Obi-Wan at ease again. The knots in his gut began unspooling, and he picked up his own drink for a sip. 

“Well done, then,” he said after dabbing his lips dry.

Anakin gave him another odd look, but didn’t respond. He just took a swig of his own watery beer and retreated into his mind.

* * *

“Remember,” Del said, voice barely audible over the bustle of the large compound ahead. “We move as a unit. Otherwise, we won’t pull this off.”

Lars wasn’t sure they could pull it off, in any case.

As far as missions went, the current one had been suboptimal from the jump. Kuli, who usually had a head for infiltration, had kept them floating in local space for days, arguing particulars. Lars had been ready to kick her out of the airlock by the time they put down. And then there’d been their five day trek through the jungle. He hadn’t minded that so much. The view was nice, and camping with Del reminded Lars of nicer, calmer missions. 

That Kuli was ignoring him made things awkward, but not unbearable. 

The few good feelings he’d started to have about the mission while they camped, though, dried up the second he had a visual on the base. It was nothing like he’d expected. For starters, it was substantially larger than Kuli had let on. Built into a clearing with approximately half a mile circumference, it took up the bulk of level ground in all directions. While it appeared to be one level, there was no telling about subsurface. For all they knew, there could be a dozen basements.

Even putting speculation aside, the level they _could_ see was confusing. It had halls that jutted out oddly, giving it an irregular shape. There were no windows or skylights in place, which meant nothing to navigate by once inside-- just thick, unbroken walls of durasteel. The only entrance he could see was guarded by two pairs of soldiers, heavily armed and encased in plastoid armor. They were chatting through an open comm channel, and the background was messy with voices. Who knew how many more were inside.

“We’re outgunned,” he guessed, grip sweaty around his saber.

That wasn't unusual, but typically they knew the odds going in. Typically, Kuli's research held up better than this.

“Almost certainly,” Del agreed. “Which is why it's important to stick together. No solo runs, and remember: no kills where we can avoid them. Especially not the leader. We need to know everything that he does.”

Right. They’d decided that. At least, he and Del had. Kuli hadn’t looked pleased when they discussed it the night before. It was the smartest move, though. There was no guarantee that the coordinates of missing Jedi were anywhere but inside the leader's head. That sort of intel was too valuable to leave lying around. If it was stolen, the Jedi Killer would lose a substantial payout. 

Even if he’d taken the risk of having the data stored, it'd be behind layers of encryption so thorny they’d never cut it out. If they wanted to find their fellows, they’d have to interrogate the leader and his underlings. Properly this time. No dirty tricks. 

“We’re in agreement, then?” 

Del looked between him and Kuli. Lars gave a nod, but the Togruta didn't acknowledge. Her eyes were trained on the soldiers through the trees, narrowed and tracking. She didn't even seem to be listening.

Lars sighed. She'd been doing that a lot recently, even to Del. Lars had seen them by the fire the other night. While setting up camp, he’d listened in while Del tried to unclamp her. The attempt had gone as well as that sort of thing usually did. Lars had known Kuli since they were Padawans, and she'd never been an easy one to crack. Lately, though, she'd gotten worse. She was too secretive and mistrustful. He didn't like what that implied about her mental state.

Del frowned at the woman's lack of response, but moved on anyway. Good choice, Lars thought. They didn’t have time for dramatics.

"Right, then. Sabers ready, but just for blocking. Remember why we're here and stick to the plan. Kuli, on your mark we'll-- _Prim_!"

At the harsh, whispered call, Lars turned to scan for Kuli, only to find she was no longer with them in the trees. The thick trunk she’d been hiding behind was abandoned, and up ahead, something was moving in the brush. If he squinted, Lars could make out the pigment of her lekku, bobbing already fifty feet away.

“So much for sticking together,” he muttered, and Del cussed.

“Just catch up. If we don’t cover her, she’ll get herself killed.”

* * *

Maybe it was the voice in Anakin’s head that sounded like Del, or that kriffing dirge Obi-Wan kept humming. Maybe it was what the man had said when he thought Anakin was sleeping, or how relieved he’d looked that Anakin had come back. Or maybe it was steam from the shower he’d just taken, still swirling around the room and fuzzing his head. It was a combination probably, but regardless, Anakin blamed it for the set of conclusions he’d just come to.

The first was that he needed help, which he’d initially thought days ago. Back on their shuttle while applying the first layer of nerve cream, he realized there were burns he couldn’t reach. Thankfully, the ones on his thighs and ass weren’t among them. The damage was worst there, making ropey scars and craters that hurt no matter how carefully be moved. He could smear medication all over those, and he was grateful. The splatters under his shoulder blade, though, were a problem. 

At first, he thought it was a spatial issue. His first attempt was in the shuttle’s cramped ‘fresher, and he'd hoped for better luck on Naboo. That hadn't worked out, though. The one at the inn was larger, but he still couldn’t get the right angle. He’d tried every night, and repeat failure forced him to admit that the problem was his body. The extensive burn damage reduced his range of motion, and no amount of creative twisting could make up for it.

It was a humiliating problem, but one he had to deal with. Preferably soon, now that he knew the cream worked. It allowed him to walk and sit without pain for the first time in months, and he wanted it to start working on his back. That damage was less severe, but it still got in the way. Reaching, turning, and bending were difficult to the point of debilitating. Every move tugged puckered skin, which most days felt like it was going to tear. It made him a worse pilot and fighter, which he didn't need.

More than that, he just didn't want to _hurt_. 

Diverting his power to manage the pain was hardly a relief. He'd relied on it for months because he had no other option, but it didn’t even hold up under basic physical activity. The cream provided the first real peace he’d felt since waking, and he didn’t didn’t want to suffer needlessly. To avoid that, though, he was going to need help.

Second conclusion: he was going to have to ask Kenobi.

The idea made his gut flip. Having Obi-Wan at his back, hands all over the source of his pain, wasn’t something Anakin felt prepared for. They’d gotten less openly hostile, but they weren’t friendly, and he didn’t want to be. Not now, and possibly not ever. He hadn’t decided. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about the other man.

No, that wasn’t right. He knew exactly how he felt, it was just that it didn’t make sense. He vacillated between anger, suspicion, fear, and begrudging gratitude, sometimes within the span of a few minutes. How he felt was so clear that it made his belly burn, but what it burned with was subject to change at any second. 

Anakin hated it, and maybe hated Obi-Wan. Or maybe not. Either way, he could name five other people he’d rather ask this off. He couldn’t, though. None of them were here. He and Obi-Wan were alone, and there wasn't anyone else for him to go grovelling to.

Frowning, Anakin combed his damp bangs back from his eyes. He checked himself in the mirror, wiping sweat from his brow. A thin layer had beaded up while he struggled to reach his burns, and he didn’t want to look any more desperate than he had to. 

As satisfied as he was going to be, Anakin tightened the knot in his towel. Once it was secure, he snatched the tub of cream from the counter. He entered the code for the door, and when it slid open thick steam rolled ahead of him, breaking apart in the colder air. He took a few breaths before stepping out into the room. When he did, the cool made him wince. It prickled the droplets still stuck to his chest, but he didn't go back. It was too late to towel off better. He'd just lose his nerve.

“You took your time,” Obi-Wan muttered, not looking up from his reading.

He was stretched out in bed, legs crossed at the ankles. One bare foot tapped at the air, keeping time with whatever song was floating through the man's head. He’d dressed down at some point, and in just his leggings and under tunic looked more like an off-duty Trooper than a Jedi. The sabers that usually hung from his hips were hidden away. Anakin couldn’t guess where, though. Obi-Wan never took them off while he was watching.

“I was putting this on,” he explained, hefting the tub.

The other's attention cut up, and when he saw what Anakin was holding, he had the decency to look sheepish.

“Of course. I didn’t mean--” He shook his head and a few locks of his bangs came unstyled. He changed tack. “Is it helping? The medicine, I mean.”

Willing to let it go, Anakin took the bait. 

“Mostly. Where I can get it, at least. There are... a few spots I’m having trouble reaching, though.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. He looked back to his datapad long enough to power it down. As the screen went black, he set it aside and weaved his fingers together before laying his hands in his lap.

“Which spots might those be? I don’t suppose--”

He trailed off, eyes casting down to Anakin’s legs. Anakin shook his head, gesturing vaguely over his shoulder. Obi-Wan mouthed _ah_ and didn’t ask him to be more specific. 

“I wondered if that’d be a problem,” he said. “I noticed you having trouble with some of the flight controls, and assumed scarring had something to do with it. I’d hoped you'd limber up, though. Can you make any contact?”

“Not really.” Anakin bent his elbow, reaching back as far as he could to prove it. “I can catch the edge sometimes, but that just makes it worse.” 

Obi-Wan hummed. “Yes, I imagine it would.”

A beat of silence, then two. Anakin lowered his arm and shifted uncomfortably. He couldn’t hold Obi-Wan’s gaze for more than a few seconds. The attention was too heavy.

“Are you really going to make me ask?” he groaned.

"I'd prefer it.” Obi-Wan’s fingers weaved tighter together. “I'd rather not misunderstand you."

That was probably fair. The last time Obi-Wan tried touching him almost hadn't gone well for anyone.

“I,” he started to say, then stopped to swallow. 

His mouth felt like it was full of grit. All his spit had baked off in the heat of embarrassment, and he could feel a flush building on his chest. His face was unpleasantly warm, and he knew his cheeks were red. It annoyed him. He wanted to pick a fight to distract from it. He couldn’t, though. He needed the man’s help more than his dignity.

“I was wondering,” he tried again, “if you could do it." He paused to wet his lips. "I'll figure it out if you can't, and I'd rather you say 'no' right now than drag it out, so--"

"I'll do it," Obi-Wan interrupted, tone placating. "It wasn't a trap."

That didn't change the fact that it felt like one. 

He looked down at the tub, then back to Kenobi again. The man was coming out of his repose. Sitting up straighter, he crossed his legs to make himself smaller on the bed. His hands were still clasped like he was praying. 

"Ok,” Anakin sighed. “Should I-- how do we do this?"

Obi-Wan nodded to the space in front of him. "Sit, but please: take your time."

Anakin nodded, then, feeling childish, slowly approached the bed. Obi-Wan didn't move. He was relaxed but unwavering. His eyes tracked Anakin's approach, but that was it. It was like walking up to a carving at the temple. Everything about the man-- his posture, expression, and energy-- was perfectly constructed. It called to mind a specific statue: a bearded Knight in one outer shell of the ziggurat. He’d always thought it looked like Obi-Wan, and used to stare when he passed it.

He lowered himself delicately onto the mattress when he reached it. The effect of the cream was still setting into his ass and thighs, and he didn’t want to make himself yelp by sitting too quickly. Thankfully, he managed to avoid it. The pain he felt on contact was distant, and all it made him do was grit his teeth. Keeping his feet on the floor, he forced his jaw to unclench as he turned to eye Obi-Wan. The man was still at his side.

"Can I have that?" he asked after a moment, gesturing to the cream. 

Anakin passed it, releasing just before Kenobi's hand closed. It kept their fingers from brushing, but it also almost made Obi-Wan drop it. He had to scramble to catch it before the contents splattered the bed.

"Sorry," Anakin muttered, not sure if he meant it.

"It's alright." Obi-Wan sounded just as unsure, and through the small crack Anakin had made in the partition clamped down on their bond, he sensed the sickly green of the other’s anxiety. "I'm going to move now. Is that alright?" 

Anakin nodded, and Obi-Wan rose to his knees. The older man began a slow crawl across the bed. Anakin went rigid, all his muscles primed for bolting. He refused to move, though. Fisting his hands in the comforter, he didn’t even allow himself to crane his neck any further. Once Obi-Wan had passed out of his periphery, he locked his attention on the window on the opposite wall. The sky was dark through it, but he could see the lights of Palace Plaza. They glittered like stars in the velvety blackness; it had to be nearing eleven. If he and Obi-Wan hadn’t agreed to take a night off, they’d be going out soon. To distract himself, Anakin imagined they were walking tomorrow’s planned route. 

“Can I touch you?” Obi-Wan asked, once in place behind him. The bed dipped as he settled his weight. 

“You’re going to have to.”

“Yes, but may I?”

Anakin heard the squelch of fingers in cream. He imagined Obi-Wan slicking up and shuddered. 

“Just do it,” he said tightly. “This is--”

“I know.” 

The interruption was gentle. Anakin still nearly bit through his tongue. He didn’t like when Kenobi did that. It made him feel like a Padawan. Like someone too young or stupid to be worth hearing out. Before he could give voice to the annoyance, however, Obi-Wan moved on. He placed his clean hand on the bed next to Anakin’s, palm down and fingers flat. Neutralized threat. Small favors, Anakin guessed.

“I know it wasn’t easy for you to ask,” Obi-Wan continued, “and I just want to say--"

“I don't think--”

“Please let me finish.” 

The heel of Obi-Wan’s other hand met Anakin’s back. He sucked a breath and arched away, but Obi-Wan followed. The sturdy heel pressed, forcing him to acclimate, but it still took a few seconds for his back to unbend. When it did, Obi-Wan rewarded the compliance by rubbing hard into a knot by Anakin's spine. It was a stubborn, tight spot that’d been hurting for days, and when it broke, Anakin couldn’t help but groan.

If Obi-Wan heard the sound, he didn't mention it. He dragged his hand up, fingers curled to protect the cream. When he reached the puckered edge of the line of burns, he hesitated.

"I wanted to thank you,” he said.

Which wasn't what Anakin expected.

Surprise took some of the sting out of what came next. Without warning, Obi-Wan thumbed the deepest wound. The slick pad grazed the irritated center lightly enough that it would’ve made gooseflesh break anywhere else. There, though, where a belch of lava had burrowed deep, it made Anakin’s jaw clench viciously. His teeth grinded as the man passed back over it, slathering the spot thoroughly with cream. He rubbed over it several times, finishing in a circle to coat the tight, ringing pucker. By then, Anakin was taking quick, aborted breaths.

The man pulled back to gather more cream, or maybe to give him time to compose. Whatever he was doing, Anakin used the time to force inhales through his nose. He released them in a slow, labored shudder. Just under the sound, he heard Obi-Wan shush. Not meanly, but like he would’ve done with a startled varactyl. Anakin obeyed, gnawing his lip to center himself.

“These last few months haven’t been easy for you.” Obi-Wan laid his greased fingers onto the next burn and smeared cream. “I suspect the same could be said of the last few years, but I don’t know as much about that, unfortunately.” He twisted his wrist to slick a chain of smaller burns. The medicine lit up ruined nerve endings and Anakin shuddered helplessly. “What I do know is that you’ve suffered needlessly, and there isn’t anything I can do to change that now. All I can do is ask for the opportunity to move forward.”

Anakin gave a punched out scoff. It was so like Obi-Wan to air out laundry at the worst possible time. Did they have to do this _now_? Wasn’t Anakin compromised enough? 

“Would you be saying this if I wasn’t a captive audience?” 

Anakin sucked a sudden, sharp breath, working through a flare of pain as Obi-Wan packed a raw spot full of cream. One thick finger shovelled it in, which felt a little cruel now. Once the numbness set in though, Anakin knew he’d be relieved.

“Maybe not,” Obi-Wan allowed, and the honesty was disarming. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not sincere. I am, and I--” He trailed off with a tired sigh. Another wave of nerves welled up; Anakin wasn’t sure who it belonged to. “I want us to be able to trust each other,” Kenobi finished. “We’re a team, and I’d like for you to be comfortable enough to at least ask for things you need.”

Finished with the burns, Obi-Wan worked the last of the cream into the crinkled skin haloing them. Anakin’s eyes slotted closed as he was pawed at, moaning involuntarily whenever the firm rubbing worked a knot loose. The small sounds were embarrassing, but it was hard to care. It felt good, especially with the numb setting in.

“I don’t need much,” he said, trying to deflect.

“You need this.” Obi-Wan swiped his thumb over the string of injuries. “Will you let me do it again?”

“Why would you want to?”

“Because I want to help,” Obi-Wan stressed. “But I can’t if you won’t let me, so consider it. Please.”

Anakin thought of Del then: his grainy image through a holofeed, old face smiling so kindly and easily; how his voice dipped low as he tried coaxing Anakin into checking Obi-Wan’s teeth. _Because you let me,_ he’d said; Anakin frowned at the memory. He hadn’t taken the advice yet, but he’d been thinking about it. He’d hoped to put it off making a decision a little longer, though. He’d never been fond of baring his throat.

That kind of exposure was dangerous, and could still be with Obi-Wan. The man had wasted a dozen opportunities to hurt him, but it was possible that he was biding his time, looking for the right soft spot to tear into. Lingering suspicion aside, though, Anakin was getting tired of looking over his shoulder. The messy tumble of emotions he felt towards Obi-Wan knotted his stomach, but he couldn’t deny the fact that he hadn’t been killed yet. His old master also hadn’t gone out of the way to be cruel. Maybe Obi-Wan didn’t want to be. Maybe he was tired, too. Anakin wouldn’t be surprised. This was light years away from the life either one of them knew.

Obi-Wan’s hand dropped. His greasy fingers skated down, leaving a snail trail in their wake. Anakin arched away, hissing through his teeth. Obi-Wan shushed him again, sending a nudge through the Force at the same time. It was a questing, uncertain press at the edge of Anakin’s mind, shaded a soft, timid green. The anxious tint was-- not gone exactly, but washed over. He leaned into it cautiously, and behind him, Obi-Wan’s breath stuttered.

“I’ll think about it,” Anakin said, surprised to find he meant it. “Ask me again tomorrow.”

Through the small window he’d opened in their bond, he thought he heard Obi-Wan say _thank you_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: [writing a painful display of vulnerability] can this be mildly erotic


	9. Naboo Market, Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, at the end of another arc! Hope everyone enjoys it, and is getting pumped for the next. Just so you’re prepared: there’s Gungan Basic in this update. I know it can be hard on the eyes, but I couldn’t justify not writing it. Don’t worry, though! This should be the only time we have to use it :) Happy reading, as always! Let me know what y’all think.

Anger was a natural, unavoidable emotion. That Jedi never felt it was a common misconception, believed by as many inside the Order as out of it. As a Padawan, Del had been one of them. He’d strived all through his apprenticeship and early Knighthood to root the emotion out, believing that it was an inherent path to the Dark Side. That it wasn’t, took several decades to understand.

It was, he came to learn with the help of his betters, a healthy and even helpful response. It allowed a being to recognize they’d been hurt and provided the necessary initial momentum to move on. In that sense, there was nothing dark about it; it was simply the first step on the path toward healing. The trouble came from _refusing_ to heal and becoming trapped in a cycle of irresolvable dissatisfaction.

That was what Jedi philosophy warned against: stagnation and self-sabotage. A sentient being couldn’t be asked, in good conscience, to never be angry because that simply wasn’t possible. The emotion was hardcoded, and any attempt to remove it would likely damage something else. What they _could_ be asked to do was guide it through to it's harmless conclusion. That was what Del strived for, and what he'd taught at the Academy for decades.

The practice of allowing his frustration to well up, be recognized, then washed away was a familiar ritual. Throughout his life, Del had experienced many things that triggered his anger. In hindsight, some had been less worth the effort than others, but all had taught him something valuable. The current mess he was in would too, sometime in the future. He knew that objectively. 

In a few hours, after he’d had time to meditate, what he’d remember looking back were tactical details. How strongly he’d felt would be impossible to recall. The bright burn of emotion would be gone. He could reflect on and study the event objectively: dissect his reactions, and pick through it for evidence of why what'd happened wasn’t any one person’s fault; rather, a systemic failure. When that time came, he wouldn't toss blame, yell, or even be hurt.

Just now though, immediately after everything he’d prayed wouldn’t go wrong had done, he couldn’t imagine ever not being furious at Kuli.

* * *

All told, it took two weeks to find Kleffi’s frontmen, which was longer than Obi-Wan would’ve liked. The group’s schedule was tight, and overlapping it was difficult, despite their relatively narrow stamping ground. That wasn’t without purpose, he assumed. Being too easily accessible would draw unwanted attention, both from less serious buyers and local law enforcement. Obi-Wan doubted Kleffi had much patience for either.

However he and Anakin first entered the stream-- a few steps ahead of the men or behind--, it soon became clear what they were doing was unproductive. A few days after placing the tracker, they gave up patterned visits altogether. The routine they’d established, which seemed sensible at first, turned out to be a dead circuit. They didn’t have enough time to waste to keep running it. Staying on Naboo too long could prove fatal. They had few credits, a second target, and beyond that: neither man could rely on anonymity.

While they’d never exactly been public figures, their wartime successes and frequent assignments as Padme’s guard made them no stranger to the HoloNet. They’d been recorded and photographed dozens of times, had their faces broadcast across the galaxy. Just because they hadn’t been recognized yet didn’t mean they wouldn’t be, and Obi-Wan didn’t want to gamble unnecessarily. In the absence of going totally underground, the only guarantee of safety was speed. So far, that hadn’t been on their side.

Rather, it hadn’t been on Obi-Wan’s. 

Anakin, by comparison, was having great success. He’d found Nema and planted the tracker in half a week, and the effort was already bearing fruit. The alleged Jedi Killer, apparently having a direct line to Kleffi, had made his deposit and gone off-world three days prior. The tracker went live when he hit atmo, and had been a blipping taunt on Obi-Wan’s datapad ever since. He and Anakin checked its progress every day, watching their target make his way further out. Wherever he was going wasn’t close, and if they didn’t give chase soon, it was possible he’d be too far ahead for them to catch up. After all, there was no telling how long he’d spend at home. He might only be returning to restock supplies. If that were the case, too much delay could mean missing him and putting the lives of his next targets at risk. 

Obi-Wan tried to not think about that. If it became a choice, if he was asked to decide between reclaiming the possessions of the dead and saving lives, then of course he’d abandon the market raid. He didn’t want to, though. Knowing what was being sold, he didn’t think he’d ever be able to forgive himself. Their sacred texts and histories, personal artifacts, children’s _hair_ \-- the thought of any of it becoming trophies made him ill. It was irreverent and cruel; the braids at least should be enshrined, or put on a pyre. The rest should be cleansed and kept safe until-- Force willing-- they had a new temple to give it to. As a survivor, Obi-Wan felt he owed the dead that much. He couldn’t unwind the clock or give back their lives, but if he could prevent any further indignity, he would. If he couldn’t, if it was a choice--

But it wasn’t. Not yet, anyway.

For his own part, and however he felt about the raid personally, Anakin did him the favor of not mentioning the time. He insisted on watching the tracker and seemed concerned with the growing distance, but he didn’t make demands for them to move. He could have, of course; Obi-Wan was the leader, but if Anakin raised a valid concern, he couldn’t ignore it. Doing so would crush the fragile trust knitting between them, and like their lead on Nema, that was too precious to risk. 

Thankfully, the younger man didn’t force his hand. He simply followed through the senseless new circuit. They hopped between the cantinas at random, chasing the scent of Kleffi’s men like hungry Clawcats. Now and then they’d see evidence-- a recently abandoned corner the other patrons glanced nervously at-- but as time dragged on, it seemed increasingly unlikely they’d ever get closer. 

_Told you_ , Anakin droned, two nights before their luck turned. 

It was the closest he came to saying what Obi-Wan dreaded. At the time, they’d been in a sweaty box four streets behind Theed University, crowded against the wall with cups clutched to their chests. Of all the cantinas they visited, it was the smallest and most consistently dense. No matter when they went, it was packed with students and young professors, all mingling and happily unaware of his and Anakin’s plight.

 _Told me what?_ he’d asked.

_That there were too many moving parts._

Obi-Wan had tilted his chin to glare up at Anakin. Close as they were, he couldn't meet the other’s eyes evenly. Anakin had been taller for years, but the prosthetics provided a few new, unnatural inches. It was like a late stage growth spurt, and Obi-Wan still hadn’t adjusted.

 _And I told **you** that you worry too much,_ Obi-Wan had rebutted, before sighing heavily. _A little more time. Please. It hasn’t even been two weeks yet._

Which was true enough, though the point was hardly worth making. They were only a few days off from the mark. It was too long to have stayed, and too much longer could cost them dearly. It was probably selfish, but Obi-Wan had to try. He felt that he owed and not just to the dead, but to their informant. The woman had risked her life to supply the lead, and it’d dishonor her service to give up.

The threat of potentially having to hung like a blade over his head. As the following days played out, it swung and creaked, keeping Obi-Wan’s teeth on constant edge. The choice loomed, near and deadly, but thankfully he wouldn’t have to make it. 

Two weeks to the day, they established contact.

In a back corner of the Lepi-owned cantina they’d visited their first night on the hunt, Obi-Wan caught sight of a pair of familiar faces. His attention snagged on them as he and Anakin crossed the threshold, and if it weren’t for his grip on the frame, he might’ve stumbled. Holed up at a table catty corner to the entrance, their backs were pressed defensively to the wall. The position gave them an uninterrupted view of the floor, which they appeared to be using to scout clients. Both their sunken cheeks were sunburned and scarred, and their grassy eyes topped with strawberry brows. Their identical shocks of red hair and ropy builds were striking. Even if he hadn’t recognized them, Obi-Wan probably would’ve stared.

“What?” Anakin muttered aside when he faltered.

Not bothering with subtlety, Obi-Wan jerked his head toward the pair. Anakin tracked the motion, and when he saw them, he huffed a laugh.

“I’ll be damned.” His attention narrowed on the table, taking in the unexpectedly familiar faces. “And here I thought I’d have to watch you sulk all night.”

Obi-Wan snorted, matching his gaze. Under the joint attention, the two men perked. They sat up straighter, meeting the stares head on before nodding. 

“I have _not_ been sulking.”

“No? What would you call it, then?” 

Obi-Wan didn’t answer. There wasn’t any point. Anakin was only asking to get a rise, and they didn’t have time for games. Not now. He needed to focus. Once he’d secured a meeting, he’d bite the hook all his bitter friend wanted. 

Thrilled by the prospect of having a real, immediate task, Obi-Wan ushered Anakin deeper into the cantina. He placed a hand on the other’s back and guided him, flat palm covering a stretch of burns. He felt the tingle of nerve cream bleeding through Anakin’s tunic, and at the chill, something fond moved through his chest. He’d been allowed to apply the medicine a few times now, and with each session Anakin grew less timid. Even now when the touch was pointless, he didn’t shrug it off. He bristled briefly, but ultimately relaxed, allowing himself to be maneuvered. _Good man_ , Obi-Wan thought, but didn’t project it. It'd likely result in Anakin being contrary.

They took the furthest corner of bar seating away from the men, not wanting to risk being overheard. He used his hold on Anakin to put him in a stool, then with his other, hailed for the old Lepi’s attention. When the being managed to break from another group of patrons, Obi-Wan asked for the same cheap pints as usual. As the barback tottered off to fill the order, Anakin groaned.

"You’re going to give us gut rot."

"Don't be dramatic. Besides, no one's asking you to drink it all." In better spirits than he’d been in days, Obi-Wan chanced a grin. "Temperance is a virtue, you know."

Anakin rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. When he leaned in his seat, Obi-Wan's hand caught between his shoulders and the slats. Suddenly aware that he was still touching the younger man, he jerked away, opting to grip the ledge of the bar instead.

"Being cheap isn't," Anakin countered. "What are you pinching credits for, anyway?"

"A crisis," he said simply, because that was the reasonable answer.

"Right. Wouldn't want to find ourselves in the middle of one of those."

Obi-Wan bit back his retort, because just then the Lepi returned. His large feet thudded behind the bar, signalling his arrival. Stopping in front of them, he dropped their glasses, which teetered dangerously and sloshed some of their contents. Obi-Wan winced, but thanked him anyway. Anakin didn’t, but if that offended the Lepi, the being hid it well. After accepting payment, he waddled off without comment and left them to their planning.

"Will you be alright?" Obi-Wan asked. "While I treat with those fine gentlemen, I mean." Peering over his shoulder, Obi-Wan allowed his attention to settle on the twins again. When it did, he saw that they were watching him fixedly. Their bushy brows were pinched, trying to determine if they’d dealt with him before. "I don't know how long it'll take. If it’s more than an hour, can you manage?"

“I won’t run off, if that’s what you mean.”

It wasn’t, really. He no longer thought of Anakin as a flight risk.

“I only meant, will you be comfortable?”

When he looked back to Anakin, he found the man scowling. Not at him, but at the glass in hand. He'd lifted it to inspect several thick, dark smudges. When he scrubbed at them, they smeared in long lines and kicked up the smell of a body shop.

"I’ll be fine, so long as what's in this cup doesn’t kill me.”

Obi-Wan doubted very much that it would. 

"You've been fine every other night."

"Sure.” Anakin swiped his thumb through the mess again. “But then, I wasn’t drinking speeder fuel."

Obi-Wan sighed. It was a fair point. That the oil was probably harmless didn’t make it less disgusting.

"Order another if you're worried," he offered. "But please, nothing expensive. I want your word on that before I go.”

It was a silly thing to ask for, but Anakin indulged him. Or rather, saw the request as an opportunity to land a hit. That last was likely more accurate. Anakin rarely wasted an opening.

“You’ve got it, sir,” he quipped, sarcastically dragging out the last word. 

He gave a salute so performatively lazy that it would’ve been less trouble to do it right. It was a churlish display, and obviously meant to be mocking. The prickle of annoyance Obi-Wan felt was short-lived, though, washed over first with tenderness, then shock, and finally shame.

The title, he noted with no shortage of embarrassment, filled a gaping hole in Anakin’s speech. Obi-Wan hadn't realized how often the younger man still called him _master_ until he’d given it up altogether. The word had been a background comfort, something felt more often than heard. Now starved of it, Obi-Wan was keenly aware of how dependent he’d become. Having it shouted across a battlefield, whispered in the library, or chanted while sparring never failed to send up curls of affection. If that reeked of attachment before-- and it did, among other things--, it now did of naivety as well. Anakin would never call him that again, and alluding to it was punching low.

"Thank you," he said stiffly, trying and failing to match Anakin’s tone. 

Sensing he’d hit a nerve, the younger man smirked into his glass. Horrible, Obi-Wan thought; an insolent brat, and what did that make him? A fool, he supposed. 

“Don’t go further than the bathroom,” he grunted. Taking up his own drink, he sidled out from beside Anakin’s stool. “I may end up needing you. Don’t jeopardize this by being unavailable.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” the man said.

Obi-Wan couldn’t tell if he meant that.

* * *

Anakin didn’t ask for another drink. He just waited for Obi-Wan to leave, then wiped the glass down. He swallowed more oil than what was on it every time he repaired an engine. He’d just wanted to-- actually, he didn’t know.

Getting a rise out of his old master felt good for a couple of seconds. Admittedly, though, not as good as it had months ago. He remembered the vindictive spike of pleasure he felt the first time Obi-Wan saw him in the new prosthetics. The other man had blanched when he drummed those sticking fingers, and the loss of color made him feel powerful. It was as if the strength of his rage had drawn an uncrossable line. 

He wasn’t exactly sure when that line had started to fade. 

It was still there, though it’d mostly turned to embers. It flared sometimes and swaddled Anakin in hate, both for what’d been done to his body and the fact that at any moment, Obi-Wan could decide this experiment was over. Anakin still didn’t know what the man expected from him. He was sure there were markers he was supposed to reach, but what they were or if that was happening was unclear. When that fact wasn’t making him angry, it often made him anxious.

More recently, though, he found it fizzled down to nothing. That was quickly becoming the more frequent occurrence. The high notes of panic he felt early on had mellowed. Anakin supposed that was good for his nerves. It was a relief not to be constantly suspicious of his-- commander? Captain? He wasn’t sure what to think of Obi-Wan as. Some sort of middle management, who allegedly reported to Prim. As far as that went though, they more often interfaced with Del.

He took a sip of his drink, nose scrunching from the bite, then twisted in his seat to check Obi-Wan’s progress. Over the heads of a crowd at the other end of the bar, he could see the twin thugs and Obi-Wan in profile. None of them were hunched, and Anakin couldn't sense discomfort in any of their signatures. Kleffi’s men were bright points in the Force, guarded but not suspicious, and Obi-Wan's aura practically sang. It swirled dreamily around him, peach colored and lively. He was pleased, and apparently getting what he wanted; Anakin knew that shade intimately.

Confident that they wouldn’t notice, Anakin watched the scene play out. He drank in his old master’s movements: how he gestured and grinned, leaning into the twins’ space to tease out trust from them. It worked beautifully; soon, the pair were reclined and laughing. The friendly sound rose over the drone of the room, and Anakin wondered what sugary thing Obi-Wan had said. That was all it was, he knew: syrup and charm. Obi-Wan didn’t lean into his Force abilities if he didn’t have to.

“You the lookout?”

Anakin jolted, nearly sloshing himself with beer, and whipped his head around to face the intruder. When he saw it was the old Lepi he relaxed, but didn’t smooth his frown out. It annoyed him that he’d been caught spying on Obi-Wan.

“What’s it to you?” he asked.

The Lepi shrugged, angling to rest against the bar. He looked unsteady, and Anakin wondered if he would’ve stumbled without it. Or maybe-- unlikely, but years of conditioning dragged up the thought-- it was a feint, giving the being an excuse to move in. He didn’t look like much of a threat, but if he swiped his large paws could do damage. Out of habit, Anakin checked them for weapons and found nothing: just a bottle and a spare glass.

“Nothing, I suppose,” the Lepi said, unaware that he was being sized. “Just couldn’t help noticing.”

He smacked the glass he’d brought onto the bartop, uncapped the bottle, and poured a three finger measure. The liquid was dark, oaky, and smelled of a familiar heat. Something Anakin had before, maybe.

“Also couldn’t help but notice that you’re drinking shaak piss,” he continued, recapping the bottle. When it was screwed tight, he stashed it under the counter. “Thought you might like something else, on the house.”

Anakin looked down the line of his nose at the glass. “What’s your angle?”

“No angle. Just being friendly.” He nodded to the drink, the limp ends of his ears flopping. “Take it. Unless you’re worried about what mama would say.”

The Lepi jabbed a thumb in Obi-Wan’s direction, and Anakin answered with a derisive snort.

“I’m not,” he assured, taking up the glass to prove it. He swung it, sloshing the liquid to activate its fragrance. It was pleasantly sharp, and reminded him of a hardwood fire. “So long as it’s really free.”

“Sure is, now go on. You already did your time with that cheap shit. That makes, what? Five nights now?”

The glass stalled centimeters from Anakin’s lips. He recovered quickly, covering the slip with a considerate sip. The warm drink bit his tongue, but he held it there, buying time. He and Obi-Wan _had_ come five different nights, but why should that matter? They’d paid, hadn’t made trouble, and never stayed for long. Sensing the question, the Lepi pressed on.

“Work enough nights and you develop a knack for faces, and I’d bet I’ve worked more nights than you’ve been alive.”

Anakin looked the old thing over, then, without thinking: “I bet you have, too.”

The Lepi mouthed a silent _oh_ , showing the flats of his buck teeth. Anakin grimaced into his cup. Before he could apologize, however, the old hare chuckled. 

“I wondered if you’d be as mean as you look. But it's true. I’ve owned this place for thirty years, and a funny thing about that? It’s given me a talent. I can predict, down to a man, who’s going to come in.” He sniffed, laying one paw on the table. With the other, he made a fist against his hip. “We don’t attract tourists, if you know what I mean, which is why I’m surprised you two are here.”

Anakin tongued the roof of his mouth. “Maybe we got lost.”

“That’s what I thought the first night. Took one look at your nice clothes and just knew I’d never see you again. But you kept coming back, and five times looks like a habit.” He took his bottom lip between his incisors. “With how rare newcomers are, you can’t blame me for being curious.”

Anakin hummed noncommittally and took another sip. It made his lips tingle, and he suckled the sweetness from them. The Lepi waited, maybe expecting an explanation. He didn’t get one. Less was more when undercover.

“I’ve got to ask,” the old hare pressed, when it was clear Anakin wouldn’t answer. He lowered his voice and his eyes cleared a bit, some of his stupor sloughed off suspiciously quick. “The guy you came in with-- what is he to you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what’s your relation? Is he kin? Your boss?” The Lepi hesitated. “Or maybe you’re some class of sentient property?”

The creature’s eyes darted to the backs of Anakin’s hands, looking for tattoos or implant scarring. Realizing they were covered, he looked away just as quickly. Too late, though. Anakin’s gut heaved through a roll.

“I’m not anyone’s slave,” he barked, harsher than he meant to, then made the first correction that came to mind. “I’m his pilot."

The Lepi hummed. “That’s usually gig work.”

“Usually. Again: what’s it to you?”

The barback went silent, padding his weight between his wide feet. The paw that wasn’t fisted at his hip came to fuss with a cheek tuft. He plucked the dark fur, considering something carefully. 

“Not that it’s my business,” he said eventually, “but you’re probably decent when you drop the attitude, so let an old coney give you some advice. Whatever that guy’s paying, don’t sign back on when your contract is up.”

Anakin’s brow arched. That wasn’t what he'd expected. “Why?”

“His _trader_ friends there? Worst kind of criminal scum.”

“Last time I checked, all smugglers are criminals.”

“Not like them.” The other’s voice was suddenly stern. “They’re desecrators. Grave robbers. Most of their partners kill children.” His ears drooped, and his mouth turned down with it. “You wouldn’t believe what they sold even if I told you.”

“How do you know so much about it?” Anakin asked, genuinely curious. The being was apparently more aware than he’d realized.

“You hear a lot of things when people don't think you're listening.” 

He paused, fixing Anakin with a look so keen that he revisited his earlier suspicion. Was the Lepi faking drunk? Was that how he heard so much? That was possible. Operatives and civilians alike did it all the time.

“Look," the other continued. "Fact is, you’re not in deep yet. You wouldn’t have been left on the sidelines if you were. You’re young; you got options. Go run Spice if you want to play gangster, but don’t go this way. I mean it. It’s real bad news.”

A tight, unwavering earnestness colored the Force then. Anakin reached out, brushing against the Lepi’s signature. It was warm, honest, and corded around a sturdy core of caring. He was good. Anakin wondered how he’d gotten stuck here.

“Thanks,” he said, lowering his voice to humor the Lepi. “I’ll take it under advisement.”

“I hope you do.” His attention snapped to the side. When Anakin followed it, he saw that Obi-Wan was returning. The Lepi scowled. “Be smart kid. Don't let me catch you here again.”

The barback waddled off just as Obi-Wan reached the bar. The man offered him a smile as he went. The Lepi scrunched his nose in answer, baring his incisors, and Obi-Wan balked, thrown by the hostile look.

“What did you say to him?” the man asked, taking the open stool next to Anakin. As he settled, he caught sight of the whisky glass. “And who, might I ask, paid for that?”

“Nothing, and not you. My word, remember?” He sipped the whisky, humming lowly in satisfaction. “The Lepi gave it to me, probably to make his advice go down easier.”

“What advice?”

“To lose you at the earliest convenience.”

He spent the next several minutes recounting what the Lepi had said. When he was done, Obi-Wan divulged in kind. He’d apparently had no trouble getting on the twins’ good side, and just before he’d left the table, they’d made viewing arrangements. The next day, he and Anakin were to fly out to the coordinates the men had shared to Obi-Wan’s datapad. While Kleffi collected in Theed, he handled sales closer to home. His stores were in Lianorm Swamp, a few kilometers outside of Moenia. If all went well, they could flee from there after loading their transport. That, however, was a substantial _if_.

“Good thing the hard part’s over,” Anakin snorted. “All that’s left now is robbing a crime lord. Should be easy, right?”

“One can only hope.”

Anakin blew out a breath and swirled the dregs of his whisky. The bright scent wafted up, catching Obi-Wan’s attention. The other man inhaled deeply, his lids falling as the energy swirling all around him shaded with pleasure. Remembering that the older man had been suffering through the same swill he had, Anakin held the glass out in offering. There wasn’t more than half a shot left, but Obi-Wan was welcome to it. Anakin’s fingertips were buzzing; he’d had enough.

Obi-Wan eyed the glass for a second, expression guarded, but plucked it free when Anakin didn’t rescind. He lifted it, miming a toast before throwing it back in one go. It went down smoothly, his recently shaven throat working thickly through a swallow. 

Anakin caught a stray thought about the scratch of stubble and carefully filed it away.

* * *

Getting to Kleffi's storehouse was so simple that initially Obi-Wan worried they'd been tricked. The coordinates were a straight shot over the murky wetlands, and so near Moenia that it’s bustle was audible from where they put down. The building in question, too, gave him considerable pause. It was no more than a series of large, hollowed out tree trunks connected by rudimentary plasteel-covered walkways. It looked like a stage set, and he half expected no one to be home.

That particular fear faded when a contingent of armed men came scuttling out from the mossy gloom. A mix of humans and Gungans circled their idling shuttle, weapons pointed at the front viewport and engines. Their fingers were poised over their triggers, calm but determined to blow them apart. _Warm welcome_ , Obi-Wan thought. This must be the place.

Raising his hands, Obi-Wan made a show of not being armed. After a kick to the shin, Anakin followed suit, and what must’ve been the squad leader tilted his blaster down. Encouraged, Obi-Wan activated the shuttle’s PA system. He gave the leader the same names he’d fed to the twins, assuring him that they had an appointment. The leader barked over his shoulder, and his second took out a comm unit, no doubt running a fact check to confirm. It lasted several minutes, but when it concluded, they were greenlit. Everyone holstered their weapons, and Obi-Wan and Anakin were then instructed to disembark and subject themselves to a search.

Not seeing a way around it, Obi-Wan agreed, stashing his sabers beneath the copilot seat. When they were secure, he and Anakin did as they were asked, coming off the shuttle with their hands in clear view. They were both given a pat down, though Anakin’s was more thorough. His prosthetics made a few of the men anxious, and they had him remove his gloves and cuff his pants to ensure the limbs hadn’t been weaponized.

Once he and Anakin had been deemed a non-threat, they were led into the storehouse. Their escort winded them through half a dozen walkways and hollows, some of its bulk peeling off along the way. As they edged deeper into the complex, men broke off, falling back to retake their assigned positions. Soon, he and Anakin were sandwiched between only two rearguards and the squad leader several feet ahead. 

It was an uncomfortable walk, made worse by the fact that Obi-Wan could hear the rearguard palming their weapons. While the blasters had been holstered, their hands hadn’t left them, and one was toying with its power setting. Obi-Wan imagined the dial vacillating between ‘kill’ and ‘stun’, wondering which it’d be set to if the guard decided to pull. If he had his sabers, it wouldn’t matter. Blocking plasma was no trouble. Without them, however, he and Anakin would be shot through.

Thankfully, he didn’t have long to dwell on it. Within minutes, they reached the final hollow. At the end of the last walkway, the rearguards fell away, leaving them with only the leader. Holding up a hand, he called for them to halt several feet from the door. He approached it alone, punched a sequence into a keypad, and moments later it split open.

"He's through here," the man muttered, jerking his head. “Don’t keep him waiting.”

“Of course.” Obi-Wan gave the severe man a smile. “My partner and I wouldn’t dream of it.”

With a parting nod, he passed through the door, Anakin following behind. It clamped shut as they cleared the threshold, sealing them inside; when he heard it rearm, Obi-Wan chose not to worry about it. 

Instead, he cast his attention around what was apparently the storeroom. It was, if nothing else, the brightest of all the hollows. A window was cut into the western curve of the bark, and high up were hung outfits of electric lights. Their glow filtered down, mixing with natural sun in a way that was briefly familiar. It reminded Obi-Wan of the meditation chapels at the temple. Rather, it did, until the room’s contents came into focus.

A second, more critical scan of the hollow showed it was packed. Several dozen duffel bags, all stuffed to bursting, ran the wide circumference. The pattern only broke to allow passage through the door, though the bags on either side poked into the entryway. The ring was mountainous, with the newest deposits piled sloppily atop the old. They crushed each other, likely damaging the loot at the bottom. The arrangement was precarious, and some bags so badly balanced that they’d fallen into the center of the floor. That apparently bothered no one, because they’d been left where they fell, spilling contents through overworked and busted seams.

While the bags made up the bulk of the stock, some larger pieces had also been secured. Those were shoved against the northern curve of the trunk, nearly hidden behind a mound duffels. A handful of three-foot statues faced each other, propped against one another at their heads. The lean scuffed their faces, which looked to have sustained blast damage, and behind them were two loosely rolled heritage tapestries. Whichever temple those had come from, it was clear they’d been torn down. The corners had long, jagged rips. That loosened all the threads, ruining carefully woven scenes whose colors had gone dark from dirt and the damp.

Whoever had transported the tapestries was reckless. Even if they survived the shredding, they’d never be clean again. The thought dragged up a memory of Jocasta Nu on a ladder, carefully removing one herself for a cleaning. Over the years, Obi-Wan had watched her care for dozens of tapestries. He never assisted; she wouldn’t let him. The task was too important. He preferred to watch anyway, and each time he did, he walked away in awe of her careful hands. She never tugged a thread, unravelled a corner, or dulled the dye. She loved the tapestries, and seeing these would’ve broken her heart.

“Yous boyos should spake before looken,” a thick voice came.

It jarred Obi-Wan from his daze. His attention cut up, following the sound back to its source. Propped against the wall, just left of the door, was an Ankura Gungan. He was heavy-jowled, stocky, and dressed in dark leathers that, along with his drab hide, melted into the clutter. So perfectly, apparently, that Obi-Wan had overlooked him. Careless; a Padawan’s mistake.

“Forgive us,” he said, suppressing distaste to smile at their host. “We were just admiring your collection. Kleffi, yes?” The Gungan nodded. “Thank you for seeing us. I’m sure you’re busy.”

Kleffi shrugged, using the motion to push out of his lean.

“Never too busy for palos. And iffen yous have mula, wesa hot palos.” He took a step forward, smiling at Obi-Wan in turn. The expression was cold and slimy. “Maybe mesa even to be busten wit happiness seein’ yous.”

Obi-Wan took a step back to correct their distance. At full height, the Gungan stood a head over Anakin, and he didn’t want to have to crane his neck. Anakin, however, stubbornly stayed put. Titling his chin up, he met the Gungan’s gaze as firmly, jaw muscles clenching hard. His stance was wide and commanding, like he thought he could strongman the being.

“I’m guessing that depends on how much we buy,” he grunted.

Obi-Wan winced. The younger man could be so off-putting. He hadn’t yet outgrown the need to posture. Given his temperament, perhaps he never would. Thankfully, however, Kleffi didn’t take offense. He didn’t even seem caught off guard by the display; likey, he was used to them. He only looked Anakin over, eyes raking slow in obvious appraisal, and when he was done gave a deep belly laugh.

“Yousa must be Big Boss’s teeth.” He clapped Anakin on the shoulder. The force of it made the man’s knees buckle, but the Gungan didn’t care. He squeezed the muscle, testing its firmness, then thumped Anakin’s sturdy chest, humming like someone at the market. “Yousa paid big for him, huh Boss?”

The implication wasn’t lost, nor was how Anakin stiffened. At least, not on Obi-Wan. Kleffi didn’t notice, or if he did, he misinterpreted. Discomfort was common enough for a slave; maybe Kleffi thought Anakin just didn’t like to be reminded. If that was his assumption, he could have it. It spared Obi-Wan the trouble of coming up with a backstory.

“I’m not one to spare expense,” he lied easily. Settling into a playful cant, he planted one hand on his hip. With the other he gestured to the muscled plane of Anakin’s back. “And certainly not when the product is fine."

Through their tenuously reopened bond, Obi-Wan felt Anakin’s anger spike. His agitation bubbled just shy of its rolling boil point. If they were alone, Anakin probably would’ve started a fight. For the moment, however, he restrained himself, deferring to their need to be convincing. The only indication of his mood was the sickly green soreness that swam through the Force, and it took more concentration than Obi-Wan would’ve liked to ignore it.

Unaware of the trouble stirring, Kleffi walked around Anakin. He put the younger man at his back, all interest in him gone now that Obi-Wan had revealed himself as the leader.

“My seein you have taste.” The words rumbled in the Gungan’s thick chest. “Yousa maken hot choice comin to Kleffi. My keepen only loverly things here.” 

He raised an arm, gesturing to the cluttered spoils. Taking it as an invitation, Obi-Wan stepped deep into the hollow, beckoning for the Gungan to follow. Playing the part of the interested browser, he spent the following hour having the chaos ordered for him. As it turned, there _was_ a method of organization, though Obi-Wan wouldn’t have guessed without help. As Kleffi walked him around the room, opening bags to pick through their contents, he saw that the duffels weren’t the mindless heap he’d first assumed.

There was a grouping for sabers and various battle gear: gauntlets, leather pauldrons, and chest plates. There was one for temple artifacts and library finds, and another for personal effects taken from the ships and rooms of Jedi. That last had a subsection dedicated solely to things that’d been stolen from Padawans. There were four duffels for that alone, all of them brimming with the bits and bobs of temple childhood. Braided hair and silka beads were tangled up together, stuffed between journals and hand carved toys. Meditation aids-- free standing crystals and strung beads-- clinked together, sunk to the bottom of every bag. Clothes, some small enough to have been taken from younglings, padded the more delicate effects. _For the perverts,_ Kleffi dismissed, when Obi-Wan failed to school his shock at the sight of them. 

He’d never wanted so badly to rip a glottis out.

Resisting the urge, he allowed himself to be guided around the room, half listening while the Gungan made his pitch. The being hefted artifacts, waved them around, explaining them badly; each time he did, Obi-Wan couldn’t help but picture who it might’ve belonged to. Who had strapped that pair of sabers to their belt? Which anxious Padawan had thumbed those meditation beads? What archivist had given their life to defend that holocron, stolen for the pleasure of those who’d never even be able to read it? He tried imagining their faces: how old they were and what species, what color or patterns would’ve characterized their skin; if they were scholarly or if they spent their free time in the dojo, wiping the mat with every opponent. He wondered what their names had been and how they’d died. Had they seen the attack coming? Had they stood alone? Had their bodies been left to rot where they dropped, looted and naked? Stars above, but he hoped not.

“Okeyday,” Kleffi said when they’d finished their circuit. He dusted his hands and flashed that greasy smile. “Whatsa you thinkin’? Grossly hot stuff, huh?”

“Your reputation precedes you,” Obi-Wan said, feeling off balance. He willed his thumping heart to settle down, reminding himself that if he failed, the last few weeks would’ve been for nothing. “I must admit, I wasn’t expecting to be impressed. The other collections I’ve seen have been so disappointing. I can see you take pride in your work.”

“So wesa maken a trade?” he asked. When Obi-Wan nodded, he clapped. Turning back to Anakin for the first time in an hour, he beckoned to him. “Come boyo. Big Boss will besa needin’ you."

A thorn of resentment snagged in the Force. When Anakin looked to him, playing at asking permission, the heat of his gaze threatened to raise blisters. Obi-Wan wondered if Kleffi was trying to get him killed. Sending out a placating pulse of his own, which Anakin at least didn’t reject, Obi-Wan waved him forward. The other obeyed, and the three men made a circle at the center of the room.

“My wonderen how you maken sure hesa don’t bite,” Kleffi muttered, not missing the tension. But the curiosity was fleeting. “So, whatsa you want?"

Obi-Wan pretended to mull it over. He hummed and cast his eyes around the room, letting his attention linger on a bag of gleaming hilts. When he raised a hand to stroke his beard, he felt Kleffi’s greed roll.

“I want all of it.”

Kleffi blinked. “Whata you spake?”

“Don’t be a tease. I’m sure you heard.”

The Gungan opened his mouth, then snapped it shut, apparently stunned. Obi-Wan could hear his mind working to churn out a sum.

“Thatsa goen cost,” he sputtered eventually. “Maxibig.”

“Actually, I don’t think it will.” The Gungan’s face pinched, but before he could ask, Obi-Wan sent out a focused wave of power. He felt it meet Kleffi’s signature and nudge instantly, seeking a weak point. “You’re going to give it to us freely,” he insisted. “Every last piece of it.”

Kleffi panted, billed face scrunching against the needling suggestion. Obi-Wan breathed out, trying to burrow into the other’s mind. Admittedly, it was more difficult than he’d expected. Kleffi apparently wasn’t as weak-willed as he looked, and had clearly received some sort of defensive training. His mental shield was thick, and even after seeping through it, Obi-Wan could feel the Gungan struggling to force him out. 

_Inconvenient_ , he thought, redoubling his effort. He funneled his focus down to a pike and jabbed it in. The Gungan grunted like he’d been skewered, stepping back from his assailant, all the while beating a fist against his thigh. It was a hard, steady rhythm, and Obi-Wan recognized it as a centering technique too late to disrupt it. By the time he thought to, the connection between them snapped and Kleffi drew a sharp, angry breath.

“Yousa cheat,” he spat, genuinely offended. “Whosa you supposen to be?”

He straightened up, attention cutting to the door. Obi-Wan could sense him thinking of dashing for his guards. If he wanted to prevent that, he’d have to take the Gungan down, though whether he’d be able to do so quietly was anyone’s guess. He’d have to try, though. If Kleffi alerted his backup, Obi-Wan and Anakin’s chances of escape would shrink. It was a long, narrow sprint back to their shuttle, and they were unarmed. It’d have to be an exceptionally lucky run.

Before either he or Kleffi could make a move, Anakin swiveled to stand between them. He blocked Obi-Wan from view, raising his hands for peace. 

“I think there’s been a misunderstanding." 

The tone was uncharacteristically mellow, and his words all shot through with a warmth. It puffed out with his breath to pool around him, spreading out in a heavy, willful calm. Obi-Wan recognized the pillowy texture as the wind up for a mind trick. A second try couldn’t hurt, he supposed. It was better than his plan.

“We aren’t trying to get out paying you,” the younger man continued. “We’re just not going to do it twice.”

“Twice?” Kleffi repeated, head tilting slightly to catch the softness. Obi-Wan couldn’t blame him. It felt like summer sun, and already seemed to be settling his nerves.

“That’s right. Don’t you remember?"

Anakin’s focus honed, all the mess of his earlier feelings sloughing off to clear a path for a wave of insistence. It rolled out and swept up to swaddle the Gungan, who was so unprepared for the weight of it that he swayed. It wound around his legs like a blanket, twisting upward to cradle his chest and arms. The heaviness pinned him, and by the time Anakin troubled with burrowing into his mind, Kleffi was dazed to put up much of a fight. Though, Obi-Wan could still feel that he wanted to. Some part of Kleffi’s consciousness, too deep to touch, knew what was being done and tried to rail against it. It wasn’t any use, though. Anakin’s hold was syrupy thick. The realization that he was outmatched spiked Kleffi’s signature with fear, but even that was short lived. Anakin’s power eclipsed it, disabling his fight response. When it fell away, leaving his gummy brain open, the persuasive tendrils sunk into the root.

“You do, don’t you?” Anakin cooed, feeling his hooks catch meat. “It's only been a few seconds, and you were pretty impressed."

"My…" Kleffi blinked. "My was?"

"Sure. Never seen so many credits at once in your life.”

Kleffi smacked his lips, trying to remember, and Anakin sent out another pulse of persuasion. It vented back, rocketing excess heat and coercion through his and Obi-Wan’s bond. Obi-Wan shuddered, realizing that their connection had blown open. The other was too preoccupied to bother boxing him out, and for the first time in months, they were fully threaded. _Stars_ , but had it always been so loud? The shadowy impressions of Anakin’s thoughts and feelings bounded senselessly, flooding Obi-Wan with a fullness that edged on overwhelming. He thought his head might burst from the pressure, but god, it was good. 

"Anakin," he muttered, not knowing what he meant to say after.

The other man spared him the trouble of figuring it out. Without turning, he threw up a hand for silence. The movement recoiled and in its wake, Obi-Wan thought he felt something: phantom fingers gripping his jaw to coax it shut. But that couldn't have been right. Anakin wouldn't waste the energy. It was probably a side effect of the intoxicating backflow.

"We're friends, right?" Anakin asked, all honey colored. Obi-Wan almost sobbed _yes_ before realizing who he was talking to. "It's not fair to cheat friends. You want to be fair, right?"

After the briefest pause, Kleffi nodded.

“Good.” Anakin relaxed his stance, and some of the heat banked. It broke along a fault line that allowed Obi-Wan’s head to clear. Kleffi’s, however, stayed sunk in fog. “Why don’t you prove it? Call some of your men to help load up our ship.”

Muttering in agreement, Kleffi fished out a commlink and activated his personal line. While he slurred through his instructions, Anakin turned to Obi-Wan.

“When his crew gets here, help them load. I’m staying behind.” He peered over his shoulder, eyeing the Gungan suspiciously. As he did, the sweat on his face caught light. His forehead was slick with it. “He’s still fighting. I should keep an eye out. Just call when you’re done.”

“Of course,” Obi-Wan agreed, grateful for a directive.

Though his mind had cleared, he still felt like a buoy, and it was a relief to surrender, however briefly, to Anakin’s current.

He didn’t breathe freely again until their ship was in orbit. Even then, several minutes of silence lapsed before either he or Anakin acknowledged the success. When they did, though, it was with a sense of mutual ease that Obi-Wan hadn’t felt in some time. 

Unstrapping from the pilot’s chair, Anakin barked an incredulous laugh and pushed aside a swoop of sweaty bangs.

“I can’t believe that actually worked.”

Obi-Wan echoed the punched out sound.

“Without your intervention, it probably wouldn’t have.”

As far as praise went, the words hardly counted. Still, the other man’s manner softened. His grim mouth parted slightly, and his permanently creased brow smoothed, apparently taken aback by the admission. The open expression docked several years off his face; he could’ve been eighteen, or twenty, or freshly Knighted. It could’ve been one of a thousand moments they’d stolen and shared in the Clone Wars. But it wasn’t, and as quickly as it came, the moment passed. 

Clearing his throat, Anakin shook his head clear. “Remember that next time you want to take point.”

Their bond flooded briefly with self consciousness before it narrowed back down to a pinprick. Evidently embarrassed, the younger man hurried to busy himself with the instrumentation. He pressed a few buttons, adjusted a dial, and powered up their counterpart of Nema’s tracking system. Only that last seemed necessary, but Obi-Wan didn’t comment. He didn’t want to spoil the mood.

“Has he landed?” he asked, redirecting the conversation. 

“Not yet, but he’s reverted to real space. He’s been sustaining at sublight for a couple hours. My guess is he’ll drop into an orbit sometime tomorrow.” He looked away from the tracker, scanning their systems readouts. “We can follow the hyperlane until we have a solid target, but we should stop for a refuel first. There are two stations nearby, up on Onoam and Ohma-D’un. I suggest the second, though. I know the owner personally.”

Obi-Wan grimaced, uncomfortable with the idea of having to swindle another civilian. They had less than fifty credits, which wasn’t enough to spit at.

“Well enough to call in a favor, I hope.”

“As a matter of fact.”

Anakin looked up long enough to smirk. Obi-Wan’s brow quirked. He’d been joking, but perhaps he should’ve known.

“Are you sure we can trust them?" he asked, skipping over the troublesome subject of what illegal thing Anakin might’ve done to earn the favor.

“We can. He and the Emperor don't get along.”

That raised more questions than it answered, really, but Obi-Wan once again refused to ask. Instead, he sighed _fine_ , giving permission for the course to be plotted before settling deeper into his chair.

"Don't get too comfortable," the younger man warned. "It's a short flight."

"I'm aware."

Still, as the auto was being disengaged, he pulled out his datapad. Half an hour was long enough to brush up on files. Now in active pursuit, he wanted to be as familiar with Nema as possible. Clearing his mind, he powered up the device’s screen. When it lit, however, he felt his brow crease. He had a notification: a missed communication from Onderon. 

Had Kuli’s mission finally wrapped? It was impossible to tell. Whoever from their group had called, they hadn’t left a message.

“What?” Anakin asked.

“Nothing. Just a missed call.” 

“From Del? Should we call back?”

Obi-Wan considered, then shook his head, swiping the notification away. 

“After the refuel,” he said, opening the file folder instead.

Whatever the update, he was sure it could wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would I have flippantly said Kleffi was Gungan if I’d thought through having to write his dialogue? Probably not XD But I had a surprisingly good time (and learned a lot about Gungan grammar), and am glad I got to try it out!


	10. The Jedi Killer, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unpheenix made art of this fic just after the last update, and I cried for probably ten minutes. Y’all should [check it out!](https://unpheenix.tumblr.com/post/615117529308921856/anakin-he-muttered-not-knowing-what-he-meant)
> 
> Enjoy the update! I wanted to touch on some things I ran out of time for last chapter, as well as touch base on an older plot point. Have fun, and let me know what y’all think :)

The station manager on Ohma-D’un proved to be perfectly discreet. After catching sight of Anakin through the ship’s viewport, he sent all of his workers away and guided them to a secluded fuel pump. Once they were settled and the ship powered down, he attended them personally. 

Though he and Anakin clearly had history, the station's owner didn't speak as he worked. He ignored Anakin where he sat on the extended boarding ramp, and didn’t even give a nod to Obi-Wan. He may as well have been servicing an empty ship. He attached his filling equipment in chilly silence, looking between it and his datapad readouts as it pumped. Every so often, however, he gave a series of whistles. When Anakin returned them, Obi-Wan could only assume they were communicating.

It took two standard hours to fill their tank and emergency cells. When the job was done, the old man quickly disconnected. As soon as his gear was remounted, he approached the ramp to mime accepting payment. He and Anakin palmed empty hands, sharing a look so long and amiable that Obi-Wan felt like a voyeur. When they finally let go and the man jogged off, he was relieved.

"What was that?" he asked, after they'd reboarded.

Anakin waited for the ramp to fully retract and seal before quirking a brow at him. 

"What was what?"

"You know what." Obi-Wan gestured aft toward their fuel cells. "He’s letting us off with at least nine months of fuel.”

The younger man shrugged. "It was a big favor."

Without bothering to elaborate, he made his way to the cockpit. Deciding it wasn’t worth it to pry, Obi-Wan followed. Once settled in their chairs, they didn’t linger on the docks. Both were eager to put the Naboo system behind them. While generous, the extra fueling had cost them precious time, and their lead on Nema grew thinner by the hour. More than that, there was no guarantee that Kleffi hadn’t scrambled his own pilots after breaking through Anakin’s fog. In the interest of avoiding getting caught in a dogfight, they needed to get themselves gone quick.

Following Nema’s lead, Anakin ferried them to the nearest entrance of the Hydian Way. On the way he made several zigzagging micro jumps to throw potential pursuants off their scent. While not unfamiliar with the method, Obi-Wan wasn’t fond of it. That sort of skipping made him space sick, not to mention nervous. While he trusted Anakin’s math, he was aware of how thin the margin of error was. If the numbers were wrong, they could be blown through a planet. They’d be pulverised, and the fact made Obi-Wan sweat. So much so that the crash webbing he kept engaged began to dampen, and his crushing grip on the secondary control stick went slick. 

“You’re going to snap the thruster gear,” Anakin teased when he noticed.

Embarrassed, Obi-Wan snatched his hand away. Anakin snorted, though the sound was more indulgent than mocking. 

“Relax. When’s the last time I ran us into an asteroid?”

The answer, of course, was never. If he had, they’d be dead. Still, there was a first time for everything. Obi-Wan could only hope Anakin’s clandestine visits to the Naboo system had been frequent enough for him to know the space intimately.

They were, apparently, because they made it to the hyperlane entrance without so much as a dent. Anakin stalled them outside of it, allowing Obi-Wan to catch his breath. Grateful for the break, the older man finally unstrapped. He peeled out of his crash webbing and hunched, burying his face in the sweaty cups of his palms. A tension headache had banded his skull, and he doubted it’d slack soon: a familiar side effect of allowing Anakin to pilot.

While they idled, Anakin double checked their tracker. He powered it up, watching the screen flicker to life. As it went live, it slogged through a backlog of trajectory data, bringing itself and them up to speed since the last check-in. It took a few minutes, as their target had been doing some strange maneuvering of his own. The tracker had to plot through a dozen stored micro jumps, as well as several exits and reentries to the Shapani Bypass. He’d dipped in and out of it for hours, occasionally reverting to real space to idle for a while. Long enough, Obi-Wan noted, for potential pursuants to get a fresh read. He seemed to be attempting to lead anyone following him on a goose chase.

When the feed caught up to real time, it showed that Nema’s ship had dropped into orbit. It wasn’t cutting toward atmo yet, but it was circling, and of all places: above Thyferra. After confirming the coordinates, Obi-Wan frowned. It was a cartel planet with an uncomfortable hold on galactic bacta production. Nearly all in existence came from one of two on-world corporations. There were a few instances of competition, but they were negligible. The monopoly was too deeply rooted, and supported by crime.

What Nema could possibly gain from having a base there, Obi-Wan couldn’t say. The location was strategic, but if he was truly independent, operating at the heart of a crime syndicate’s territory was risky. They tended not to be friendly towards outsiders. It was possible, he supposed, that the man freelanced for the bacta cartel in exchange for a peaceful stay. That would explain where he got the funds to comb the galaxy for loot and Jedi, though whether he shared his profits was anyone’s guess. 

Likely not, Obi-Wan was inclined to believe. There was no reason for him to divy up his earnings. It wasn’t as if the cartel needed it, and the Order had never overly gotten in their way. He couldn’t see what they had to gain by getting involved. Any connection at all was probably peripheral, due to Nema needing side work to fund what he got up to. Still, it opened up the possibility that he might have back-up, and any amount at all was too much, as far as he was concerned. 

Having even one friend could make their target difficult to catch off guard.

* * *

When the other team’s second hail came through, Obi-Wan didn’t miss it. He and Anakin had reverted to real space minutes before, intending to reach out themselves once they were settled. To that end, they were set up at one of the crew hold’s tabletop stations. Taking the wall, Obi-Wan had busied himself with powering the station up, leaving Anakin to perch on the edge of the booth. His long legs were splayed lazily, and so wide that one spilled into the aisle while the other bent into space between them.

They weren’t touching. Over a foot of cushion was between them, but the pose left Anakin’s core partially exposed. His arms were crossed over his chest, but his gut and inner thighs were open. If he wasn’t busy, Obi-Wan might’ve taken a moment to appreciate it. It was the most relaxed the other had looked sitting next to him in a while, and the cautious display slacked some of the headache he’d been nursing.

The _ding_ that sounded through the powered up station nearly killed the rest of it. Relieved that their team was available, Obi-Wan accepted the call. They hadn’t had a chance to speak in days; sometime during their trek, Kuli’s group had lost their feeble connection. Anakin and Obi-Wan had been without news since before the base strike, which meant the other team had gone without too. He was eager to catch up and start planning a rendezvous. While it’d have to wait until after they’d handled Nema, he wanted to arrange it. He wanted to see and touch and be with them. He missed being in one room. 

Before the second hail chimed through, he tapped the station’s interface. The transmitter fired up and a holo resolved. At least, it tried to. The image was unstable, flickering from tremendous interference, and it took nearly two minutes to settle. Slowly, as if stitching himself together by the pixel, Del’s body came into view. He was hunched on a low seat, knees spread and boots planted firmly, looking down at his own holotransmitter. The sharp shadows cast by the position paired with the failing signal smeared the details of his face.

“Can you see us?” Obi-Wan asked, raising his voice on instinct. The quality of the image didn’t give him faith in the sound. “We have a partial visual. Did something happen to your transmitter?”

“I can see you.” Del turned his head to confirm where they sat. The image jerked erratically and his voice distorted. The sibilant sounds were especially staticky, and Obi-Wan almost couldn’t parse them. “And the transmitter’s fine. Don’t worry. It’s just a solar storm.”

That didn’t strike Obi-Wan as something less deserving of worry. 

“Should you land? The radiation--”

“You worry too much.” Despite the crackle of interference, the familiar warmth of his words bled through. “Lars is flying. We’ll be fine. I’m just glad I could get a call through.”

“So are we,” Anakin said before Obi-Wan had a chance to. “It’s been a few days. I was starting to worry, old man.”

The tone was light and teasing, and at the sound of it Obi-Wan felt an uncharitable stab of jealousy. It broke apart when he heard Del laugh, though, replaced by shame before it faded. He knew it wasn’t fair to begrudge them a friendship. These were lonely times, and he should be relieved that Anakin had made a connection. He and Del were well matched, and that they got along boded well.

“I may be old,” Del allowed, “but I’m not helpless. But what about you? Are you still on Naboo?”

His attention returned to Obi-Wan, deferring to his position as leader. Anakin’s followed, and Obi-Wan gave them both a nod.

“We’re off-world,” he said, “and have been for several hours. I apologize for not touching base sooner, but we needed to put distance between ourselves and the system.”

The old Jedi huffed a laugh. “I take it that means that raid went well.”

“Exceptionally, thanks to Anakin, and we’re now en route to our second target. The man we spoke about; you remember.”

“The Jedi killer?” When Obi-Wan nodded, Del hummed. “I’m guessing that means a rendezvous will have to wait.”

“Unfortunately. We can’t risk losing him, but it shouldn’t take more than a week. Can you three hold out?”

“It won’t kill us, if that’s what you mean.” He cleared his throat. “But after this, I think regrouping should take priority.”

Obi-Wan already considered the rendezvous a priority, but how Del reinforced it gave him pause.

“Why?” he asked. “Did something come up on Onderon?”

He’d expected it to, of course. They’d gone after sensitive intel, and it was possible they’d uncovered rather a lot. If that was the case, regrouping to plan their next move could only make sense. If that was it, though, Obi-Wan didn’t understand why Del sounded so unsure. Maybe it was the interference, but the hunch of his shoulders and edge to his voice read more as troubled than anything else.

“It did, but it’s probably not what you’re hoping.”

The line garbled Del’s voice badly, distending his words. They sounded canned, like something out of a dream, and it raised the hairs at Obi-Wan’s nape. He cast a glance aside to Anakin, but the younger man just shrugged.

“I take it that’s what you called to tell us,” Obi-Wan said carefully. 

“It is.” The older man drew a deep breath. "You know up to a point, so I won’t waste time where I don’t have to. The trek was obviously fine. The trouble started once we reached base. The reccie we’d planned before going in turned up unfortunate news.”

“Which was?”

“It was larger than we expected, for starts, and the layout was a little too complex. Its shell looked like a tunnel system, and while we couldn’t be sure, we assumed there was at least one subfloor. We also assumed, based on comm chatter, that there were significantly more people on duty than we’d have liked.”

“How many?” Anakin interrupted.

“I never took an official count, but--” He paused to work out a sum. “I’d estimate sixty. Not all combatants, though. Some were techs and moderators, and they were smart enough to stay out of the way.”

“So, how did you get through?” Obi-Wan asked. “What was the plan?”

Del grimaced. “I’m sorry to report that those have different answers.”

Obi-Wan’s nails found a loose bit of stitching in the cushion. He plucked at it, wanting something to do with his hands. 

“The plan didn’t work?”

“It’d be more accurate to say it wasn’t given a chance to.” The old Jedi blew out a sigh. The sound broke apart, and for a few seconds, so did his outline. “Once we realized how outnumbered we were, we agreed to move as a unit. We were supposed to go in together and force our way to the leader, killing the guards only when we couldn’t incapacitate.”

“Why?” Anakin asked.

“Just being thorough. We thought one of them might know something useful, but the hired hands were ultimately expendable. The leader wasn’t, though. We needed him alive.” Del’s mouth crumpled. “You know how headhunters are. They’re too paranoid to leave a data trail. If they do, it’s behind encryption so thick that you couldn’t bomb through. Our only shot at learning anything was taking him alive.”

“For questioning,” Obi-Wan guessed. “By who?”

“All of us at once, for oversight.” He didn’t have say who that was meant to keep in check. “It was a standard maneuver; nothing fancy. It should’ve worked. Speaking honestly, it probably would have if Kuli--”

He trailed off, presumably to gather his thoughts, and a cold pike of panic lanced Obi-Wan’s chest. He realized then that, despite Del and Lars both being accounted for, he had no idea where the Togruta was.

“What happened? Where is she?” He squinted, trying to make out her shape in the shadows at Del’s back. When he couldn’t, he swallowed hard. “Is she--”

“No,” the other soothed. “She took a few hits, but none of them were life-threatening. The walk back wore her out and she’s sleeping it off. Once she’s rested, she won’t have permanent damage.”

Obi-Wan breathed out his relief. Losing one of their few remaining own would’ve been a hard blow. Before his nerves could properly settle, though, Del carried on.

“But, she also won’t be the acting team leader.”

It took several seconds for the words to register. When they did, they brought a fresh wave of confusion.

“Why not?” he asked.

Anakin offered an answer before Del did.

“Because she’s the reason the plan went off track.” When Del didn’t correct him, the younger man tongued his lips. It swept slowly along the seam as he considered. When he next spoke, his voice was flat. “You keep saying ‘was’. You don’t have him, do you?”

 _No,_ Obi-Wan thought. That couldn’t be right. The three of them were more than capable of taking one man. Never mind the guards and techs. The point had been to secure the killer, and they had to have at least done that. That man had information they desperately needed, and if they couldn’t get it, the lives of any survivors he’d been chasing were forfeit. If Obi-Wan’s group couldn’t intercept them, they’d stumble onto someone else’s radar. If that happened, they wouldn’t get another chance. That they’d gotten one in the first place was nothing short of a miracle. Kuli _knew_ that. She was the one who’d spent weeks scraping leads up, and she wouldn’t gamble with something so precious. She couldn’t.

“No,” Del confirmed, sounding exhausted. “We don’t.”

Obi-Wan blinked once, twice, then gave an unsteady huff. It hurt his lungs, which felt as if all the air had clenched out of them. He drew the breath back, hoping for some sort of relief. He didn’t feel any. He couldn’t get enough air through his throat. There was a lump at the base, thick and aching, stopping everything up.

“I don’t understand,” he heard himself mutter.

The voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. It hit a note of panic so sharp that Obi-Wan was ashamed; not just of the sound, but of the feeble thump of his heart. The strange beat offset his pulse, flooding the energy that surrounded him with a sickly yellow frailty. Anakin must’ve smelled it, because his end of their bond fluttered open and a faint hint of concern filtered through. Obi-Wan felt a tendril of Anakin’s energy prod his edges, seeking out the tender center of the spreading anxiety. If he had a better hold of himself, he might’ve shut the other out. He felt exposed, uncommonly vulnerable, and he didn’t like it.

“What did she do?” Anakin asked, perhaps to give his old master a moment. That, or to keep him quiet while he explored. 

Whatever it was, Obi-Wan was caught somewhere between resentment and gratitude. While he appreciated having a moment to compose himself, he wasn’t sure he liked how suddenly curious Anakin felt. He dipped the tips of his awareness in like he was _looking_ for something.

“She broke formation almost immediately,” Del continued, unaware of the tension. “She took off while Lars and I were reviewing the plan, and by the time we realized, she was halfway to the entrance. She was seen by the men guarding it before we could intercept her. When they tried to seal it, she sliced clean through them. Didn’t even wait for them to drop before going inside.”

He broke off to ride out a long wave of interference. The holo shook so badly that his image shattered. A jagged blue haze hung where he should be, and it took a while for something recognizable to resolve. As it pieced back together, Anakin finished his search. Obi-Wan felt the invasive pressure ease off. It slid down his temple and cheek like gel, making him shudder. Before he could turn and demand to know what the point had been, though, Del’s image returned. It was grainier, but he was still audible, which was what mattered. After offering an apology, the older man continued.

“She cut through the guards that got in her way like nothing, and left the rest for Lars and I to handle. Probably to make sure we couldn’t follow too quickly, and it worked. By the time we made it to the leader’s safe room, she had him pinned. She had her saber to his throat, and kept demanding to know where his next targets were. She looked feral, and sounded worse, but the idiot didn’t take her seriously. When he didn’t immediately comply, she-- well.”

Del crudely mimed a slash to the throat. Obi-Wan clamped a hand over his mouth to dampen his grunt. He breathed hard into his palm, hoping the recycled air would calm him. It didn’t. It just made him feel dizzy. He squeezed his eyes shut, half to ward off a wave of nausea and half in stubborn disbelief. Because he _couldn’t_ believe it. He didn’t want to. They’d been relying on her, and why did that always have to end like this?

“Tell me you were still able to get something,” he muttered through the gaps of his trembling fingers. “Maybe there was-- a file. Something he forgot to wipe.”

Del shook his head slowly. “We picked every piece of tech apart. We were at it for hours, and we couldn’t find anything. There wasn’t even a log of collected hits. The base was clean.”

“But the staff-- you said they weren’t all combatants. The techs wouldn’t have fought, and you wouldn’t have hurt them. They’d be grateful. They’d help you. Maybe they didn’t even like--” 

“Obi,” Del interrupted firmly, and Obi-Wan faltered, miserably aware that he’d been rambling. “They were grunts. They didn’t know anything more than we did.”

That couldn’t be right. Someone had to know something. Every leader had a right hand. He must’ve confided in someone; a favorite guard, maybe. But then, Kuli had forced their hands in killing the guards. By running in ahead and initiating combat, she’d likely tripped a deep security alarm. After that, Del and Lars wouldn’t have had a choice. Under direct fire, they would’ve had to swing to kill.

“So,” Obi-Wan muttered, collapsing against the back cushion. “We failed.” He felt boneless, helpless, and frayed. The headache had come back, and pain smeared the edges of his vision. “His targets. Those _people_. We don’t even know their names.”

They could’ve been old friends, Padawans, or younglings. There could’ve been one, five, or a dozen of them. They might already be injured or half dead; whatever else, they were in danger, and they’d been abandoned. Kuli’s anger had once again caused unnecessary damage, and this time she couldn’t hide behind imagined morality. She’d jeopardized survivors with her selfishness and impulsivity. She couldn’t be trusted-- certainly not to lead, and maybe not at all. 

Obi-Wan caught the dangerous thought between his teeth. With it, he bit hard down into his tongue. He tasted blood and swallowed, using the tang to clear his head. That conversation, while necessary, would have to wait. Their group needed to be together for it, and he himself needed distance. The furious pounding of his pulse would just cloud his judgement. He didn’t trust himself just then to be level headed, and he had to be. Even though Kuli had obviously lost her senses, the rest of them couldn’t afford to.

“Who’s in charge until the rendezvous?” he asked, scrambling for order.

“I am, though I’m not assuming that means I’ve taken over her full role. That’s something we’ll have to vote on. Among other things.”

“Of course. For now, what’s your plan?”

“Morale being what it is, I think it’s best that we just put down. We could wait somewhere near your target if that’d be helpful.”

Some of Obi-Wan’s foul mood banked. “It would, actually. Thank you. We’re going to Thyferra. What can you do with that?”

The older man slipped what must’ve been a datapad out of his pocket. He fussed with it a while, scanning through data. After a few minutes, he asked if Bestine would be fine. It was a relatively straight shot from Onderon, and less than a parsec from Thyferra. Obi-Wan agreed, and with that settled, the three of them said their goodbyes.

Once he and Anakin were alone again, Obi-Wan allowed him to slump. He breathed out, shoulder smashing uncomfortably against the wall. His head bent to join it, and the cold durasteel felt nice against his throbbing temple. His headache had peaked, and he had to squeeze his eyes shut to block out the harsh overhead light. He drew air in steadily through his nose and held for several seconds before releasing, weakly trying to will the pain away. 

After several minutes of watching the failed exercise, Anakin took a more direct approach. He slid out of the booth, and when he returned minutes later opted to take a seat across the table. He scooted in to face Obi-Wan, clicking his tongue for attention. When he got it, he nudged a water bottle and a few pain tabs toward him. Relieved, Obi-Wan snatched them up.

“Thank you.”

Anakin shrugged and braced an elbow on the table. He rested his chin in his open palm, watching Obi-Wan drink. When he’d drained half the bottle and downed the tabs, the younger man broke his silence.

“I thought you were going to tell him to kick Prim out of the airlock.”

Obi-Wan wiped his mouth. Was that what Anakin had been doing? Sniffing out some threat of violence? To what end?

“For a moment, so did I.” 

“Why didn’t you?”

He skipped over the reasons he knew Anakin wouldn’t be interested in: that Kuli was out of her mind; that she was still one of them; that it wouldn’t be right, and rightness was all they had left.

“I want to know what she was thinking, and to hear it from her personally.”

Anakin hummed, tilting his head. The angle sharpened the freshly shaved line of his jaw. Obi-Wan could still smell the peppery, clean soap. 

“She’s just going to say what she thinks you want to hear.”

“Maybe,” he agreed.

The other man waited for him to say more. When he didn’t, Anakin huffed.

“Do you ever think that you give too many chances? I mean, at what point does failure start reflecting on you?”

It was a loaded question. The energy between them was tight, and it felt like no matter what answer he gave, Obi-Wan would be wrong.

“Immediately,” he admitted, for lack of an excuse. “But I’m not losing anyone else.”

“Who you lose isn’t always up to you.”

Obi-Wan gnawed his cheek, buying himself some time. He wondered if Anakin was still talking about Kuli. Not wanting to broach _that_ topic tonight-- soon, yes, but he was exhausted-- he opted to assume.

"Point taken, Master.” The tease caught Anakin entirely off guard, and Obi-Wan felt the faintest flicker of pride. “Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to sleep this off.”

When he slid out of the booth, Anakin didn’t stop him.

* * *

Anakin knew he shouldn’t be there. It wasn’t exactly off limits, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew when something was implied. If Obi-Wan caught him in the cargo hold, the other man would probably be angry. Anakin couldn’t blame him. He didn’t belong anywhere near it.

Still, two days into a four day flight-- getting to Thyferra wouldn’t take them as long as it had Nema, who’d been more concerned with evasive maneuvering than speed--, he found himself standing in the hold. It was late, or he assumed so. The shuttle’s light system didn’t have a day gradient. It was cheap, either on or off, and made telling time difficult.

That wasn’t important, probably. All that mattered was that he’d found time. Not much; he knew he wouldn’t be left alone long. Obi-Wan was just in the shower, and he never took more than ten minutes. He hated sonics. Anakin would have to do this fast.

'Fast' wasn't the right way. Ideally, he'd be able to meditate for a while first. It wouldn't just help center him, but bring balance to the room, which was a hot swarm of conflicting energies. The cargo hold was a mess of noise when it should've been still. The possessions of the dead were supposed to be quiet, but these were screaming. Anakin could still smell blaster char on some, and on others: his own saber’s ozone. 

Most of that was rolling from somewhere in the back. One of the buried bags was carrying a few things he'd cut. And if he concentrated, if he opened up _just_ enough, he could hear the echo of the last screams of who they'd belonged to. They were small; not the younglings, but newly inducted Padawans. In a scene that was half his memory and half an imprint of theirs, he could see them: too relieved that he was there to ask why he was his saber was drawn. They hadn't thought about it. They’d done what they were supposed to, and just trusted him.

He didn't think they'd lived long enough to realize their mistake. Their lingering energy only had two notes: confusion and fear. Most of the other things, though, belonged to people who'd lasted longer, and threaded through their panic was seething anger. The most recently looted goods radiated the ugly emotion, while most of the older things had nearly burned out. All of it was still making noise, though. The cargo hold felt haunted.

He couldn't do anything about that. He couldn't placate the dead. 

Even if he could, these wouldn't let him. He wasn't one of them. They didn't have a reason to listen. Even the ones he hadn’t killed personally were victims of his complicity. He’d helped put targets on their backs, and now they were dead.

He’d thought about it a lot recently. His mind had gotten quieter. There wasn’t enough fresh pain or misery to keep him distracted. His body still hurt and he missed Padme, but the edge had dulled. It was becoming background noise, getting tossed up with every other loss. 

The process was familiar in the worst possible way, but like always, it brought new focus. There was something wrong with him. He’d known that for a while. Being Obi-Wan’s Padawan made it impossible not to. His old master was the litmus test, and Anakin had never measured up. Obi-Wan was the annoyingly level, distantly compassionate, model Jedi that Anakin was never going to be. He was too rubbed raw, too attached, easily manipulated. He _wanted_ too much, and it made him exploitable.

The thought dragged up a memory: himself and Palpatine in the Chancellor’s office. Low sun through the window backlit the old man’s body. He was facing Anakin, and they were close, Palpatine talking about senatorial drama; still playing politics. Anakin hadn’t _known_ yet. Not that, anyway. All he knew was that Palpatine seemed to like him. That he wasn’t suspicious of his power, or too afraid of what touch might communicate to grip Anakin’s bare hand. He’d felt genuine.

Anakin let the memory go. It was less than insignificant. The Emperor had abandoned him, and probably for the best. Conflicting feelings about Obi aside, the man had been-- ‘good to him’ sounded coy, but it was true. He hadn’t left him to burn, though he had to have thought about it. It was probably what Sidious would’ve done. If their roles were reversed, it’s what Anakin would’ve done too. 

The realization made him uncomfortable. He wasn’t much like Obi-Wan.

As if summoned by the thought, a pair of footsteps thumped overhead. They padded, going nowhere, above the corner of the hold. Calling up his mental map of the main floor, Anakin decided that was where the ‘fresher would be. Obi-Wan must’ve just stepped out of the stall. He needed to hurry.

Clearing his throat, he descended the ramp feeding down from the landing. It ended in a wall of duffels stacked up to the ceiling, all crammed and bulging out like bodies. The tight fit reminded him of the mass slave graves he’d seen on Tatooine. 

“We’re going to bury you,” he started, keeping his voice low. The room was too full to echo, but he didn’t want to risk it. “Some of you, anyway. I don’t know about the temple artifacts.”

He felt stupid. Nothing in the room could hear him. They were just things. The energy he felt would eventually fade, and when it did, the loot would be empty as the corpses it’d been taken from. Its owners had returned to the Force, and he didn’t think they’d be coming back. He was having a pointless, one-sided conversation, but he had to. It was all he could think about since they’d loaded.

“I don’t know where your bodies are. I saw some of them, but it wasn’t--” He took a deep breath. He’d never felt more out of his element. He thought of the bodies he’d seen strewn all over the temple, and something caught in his throat. “Let me start over.”

He took a half step closer and felt his boot knock a bag. Above him, Obi-Wan was shuffling around. He could hear the older man circling in the small ‘fresher, probably wriggling back into his clothes. When he came out, the handsome fabrics would smell freshly laundered, and Anakin would be aware of just how much he’d sweated.

“I’m an idiot,” he said. “I know, and you don’t care, and it doesn’t matter, but-- I got some distance.” He scuffed his boot. It knocked the bag again and something inside shifted. “I never pictured things going this way. I wasn't planning my whole life to hurt you, you just…"

 _What_ , he thought? Happened to be in the way? He scowled. That wasn’t right. At least, he didn’t want it to be.

“Look,” he tried again. “It’s not going to keep happening. Obi-Wan has a plan. Some of it got botched, but I still think it can work. They haven’t hunted down everyone yet. If this goes right, they won’t be able to.”

He stood in silence for a few seconds, letting the words sink in. He imagined the bags were bodies again, all laid out in front of him: heads turned, faces smashed, and looking at him. He imagined that he’d fallen into one of those mass graves and woken up the corpses tossed inside. He imagined the waning strength of their emotions was enough to revive them, and they were only listening while they decided if it was worth it to kill him. 

“It doesn’t matter,” he whispered, walking backwards onto the ramp. His hand found the railing for support. “If I’m sorry. It doesn’t matter. You don’t care. You’re already dead, but--”

The sharp smack on the main floor cut him off. It sounded like the ‘fresher door being shut. Seconds later, a pair of footsteps cut across the hall and started pacing, covering and recovering the same few inches of ground. He imagined Obi-Wan was stalking around their small sleeper, rifling through one of the compartments built into the walls. Whether that was true or not, no matter what he was actually doing, it meant that Anakin was out of time. 

“I have to go,” he said instead of what he wanted to. 

If he didn’t lose his nerve, he’d come back later. For now though, he needed to sneak back to his workbench. 

As the panels overhead shuddered, he bolted for the door.

* * *

After four days of zipping along the Rimma Trade Route, Obi-Wan and Anakin dropped into Thyferra’s orbit. It was a gut-wrenching plunge straight from lightspeed, and so sudden that Obi-Wan hovered above his seat. He stayed there for several gravity-defying seconds, caught between the force of the drop and his crash webbing. If he hadn’t been strapped in, he would’ve flown into the aisle.

“There are easier ways to kill me,” he gasped.

He only found his voice after his bottom met the seat again. The panic of the fall knocked the wind out of him, and he couldn’t find enough of it to yelp. Even when he returned to the chair, there was barely enough. Jagged rips of air made his chest rise unevenly, putting a shake in his voice and hands. He felt inverted and tasted bile.

“Who says I’m trying to?” Anakin almost purred.

His tone was cloying and thick, made all the worse by how unaffected he looked. His hair hadn’t even gotten mussed by the stunt. The fact was beyond frustrating, since it could’ve killed them both. Dropping directly out of lightspeed into an orbital spin was tricky. Without the proper timing and tight calculations, it could’ve blown their engines, ripped their hull, or sent them flipping nose over tail. Anakin, though, wasn’t even sweating. He’d apparently run the numbers while Obi-Wan was distracted, and was comfortable enough with the margin of error to make the dive. The Force moved around him all pale and gentle, and he was-- 

Blast him, he was _laughing_.

Not openly, of course. He never did that anymore, and Obi-Wan still missed the friendly sound. Just then though, his shoulders were shaking and his teeth dug into his lower lip to stop the spread of a grin. The corners of his eyes crinkled with a roguish sort of mirth that told Obi-Wan that, as usual, the joke was on him.

“You’re horrible,” he muttered, unstrapping his webbing.

“I know.”

He didn’t sound at all sorry.

While Obi-Wan straightened up in his chair and tugged the wrinkles out of his clothes, Anakin turned his attention to the instrumentation. He put them in idle, letting Thyferra’s orbit carry them, before tapping a panel to call up an on-world map. He had to smack the old screen several times to wake it up, and when it finally did, the feed sputtered and glitched.

“We should replace this,” the younger man grumbled, displeased with the instability.

“If you say so, but what do we need it for now?”

Anakin flashed him an amused look, and Obi-Wan wasn’t sure if it was because of his deference on the subject or the question. Probably both. Anakin had always found it funny when he asked questions. Obi-Wan got the sense that he usually thought they were stupid.

“We need a cross reference for Nema’s coordinates,” he said, tapping the tracker’s transparisteel face. “Depending on what’s around his base, we might have to put down a couple miles out. We don’t want someone to see us coming from the jump.”

No, that was true, and certainly not if he _did_ have back up. While that was still an unknown, in the interest of safety it was better to assume.

“Should I read them off to you?” Obi-Wan asked.

Anakin nodded, and when he looked ready Obi-Wan fed him the coordinates. He entered them manually into the data field, which was as unreliable as the screen. Most of the buttons had to be tapped two or three times before they took. By the end, the younger man was so flustered that Obi-Wan thought he’d smash it. Even through his gloves, his fingers clanked viciously.

“Definitely replacing it,” he spat. “It’s almost scrap.”

“Is it going to work?”

The other shrugged. “We’re about to find out.”

It took several minutes for the old tech to interface. The screen flashed one rudimentary grid after another, trying to locate the point Anakin had plotted. When it finally did, the younger man breathed out his relief.

“That’ll have to be good enough. What do you see?”

He swiveled his chair to give Obi-Wan room to approach. Obi-Wan took it, scooting forward to study the screen, though it took several seconds for his mind to adjust. The type of readout it produced was one he hadn’t seen in more than a decade. He’d been around fourteen when they were common, and having to interpret it made him feel like a Padawan fielding data for Qui-Gon.

“He’s in a valley,” Obi-Wan decided. “The geometrics on the left indicate mountains, and the shading on the right is moderately dense forestation.” He tongued his teeth, attention zipping around the small screen. "I'm not seeing anything that suggests a free standing base, but that’s not surprising. Thyferra has hundreds of cave systems, and it’d be no trouble to set up something in there."

Anakin considered it for a moment. “Even if he didn’t, the installation could be in the trees.”

“It could,” Obi-Wan agreed. “There isn’t much nuance to these types of readouts. The density shading could easily hide a building. Either way, it’s unlikely he just parked and walked off. If you check the wider image, you’ll see there isn’t a city or outpost for miles. Whether it's in the mountain or forest, his base has to be close to his ship.”

“And both are isolated. Good news for us. So, what do you think? Should I put us down in the trees?”

“If you can find enough of a clearing.”

“That won’t be a problem.” The younger man smirked as he powered their shuttle out of idle. “Or if it is, I can just make one.”

Obi-Wan frowned. “I’d prefer if you didn’t.”

Antics aside, Anakin brought them into atmo and set their course without any more fuss. He kept them above the cloudline for most of the flight on the off-chance that incoming ships were being monitored. The height wouldn’t prevent a scan, unfortunately, but if they weren’t visible, whoever was manning the station might dismiss the reading. Without a cloaking device, it was as much coverage as they could hope for. With any luck, though, they wouldn’t need even that much.

It took several hours to reach their destination. By the time they did, the sun was going down. Dull orange light seeped through the peaks of mountains to spill over the canopy. The jungle looked like it was burning, and they were quickly losing light. As Anakin tipped their nose down, swooping in low to search for an opening, they agreed to touch down and wait out the night. While the cover of darkness would provide an advantage, the likelihood of running into trouble was high. Since they knew nothing about the landscape, locals, or predators, a blind night run would be too risky.

Thick though the canopy was, Anakin was able to find a clearing. The break in density he parked them in was, to judge by their tracker, a near perfect diagonal from Nema’s ship. In ideal conditions, the distance would make for a two hour brisk walk. Obi-Wan knew better than to count on that, though. He suspected that even in daylight, they’d get caught up. If it took no more than four, he’d consider it a success.

“We should leave as soon as there’s light,” the older man said, already interfacing with the ship’s system to arrange an alarm. “A local rotation is 21 hours, so if we don’t dawdle going to bed, we should be able to get plenty of rest before dawn.”

Anakin didn’t argue. He made quick work of cutting the engines and diverting the ship’s power to crew lighting and the ‘fresher. While he finished up, Obi-Wan left the cockpit to prepare their rations. By the time the other man joined him in the crew hold, their table was set. Dinner wasn’t much, unfortunately. Obi-Wan was already tired of protein slop and the fibrous nutrient squares they’d been living on. They hadn’t had real food since Pijal, and his gut missed the weight and warmth of it. He hoped that at some point during the rendezvous, they could have an actual meal.

While Anakin probably felt the same, he didn’t give voice to the opinion. He scarfed his portions down without ceremony or much interest. When his plate was clear he drained his water, then promptly hopped over to his bench. While Obi-Wan chewed more carefully, the younger man tinkered with what looked like a powerpack he’d left sitting out from the night before. 

Obi-Wan turned in the seat to watch, not bothering to be discreet. If it was a secret, the other wouldn’t have been so bold.

“What’s that for?” he asked around a mouthful of nutrient square.

“My arm.” Anakin shrugged. “Just a mod I’ve been working on.”

“Since when?”

“Since we left Naboo.” He pinched the squat cube between two ungloved fingers. He held it up and caught some light, rotating it slowly. “I thought it up on Pijal, but there hasn’t been much time until now.”

Satisfied with his once-over, Anakin popped the small device open. It cracked along a horizontal seam like a box, exposing a nest of wires. Anakin laid it down carefully before bending to squint inside. Obi-Wan found himself adjusting to do the same. Finished with his dinner, he scooted to the edge of his booth and leaned across the aisle for a better look. It didn’t help. The circuitry was nonsense. It all weaved and tangled, crossing wildly. The naked ends of colored wires connected up to tiny nodes in the power panels lining all four sides. The work was too cramped and delicate for Anakin to have done it with his fingers. He must’ve guided it through with tweezers. It would’ve been tedious.

“Does it hook up internally?” he asked.

“It will.” Anakin took up a hook tool and dipped it inside. He parted the wires, checking for any loose connections. When he found one, he used the tapered end to reattach it. “Not yet though, and probably not this one. It’s just the prototype.”

“What’s it meant to do?”

Anakin hesitated. For a moment, Obi-Wan thought he was going to pretend he hadn’t heard.

“Ideally? Generate at least a stun-grade electric current without getting the rest of me fried.” He frowned down at the wiring. “That’s what I’m having trouble with. I can light it up, no problem, but containment is difficult. Del suggested a disruptor band, but I don’t have the right--”

“Del?” Obi-Wan interrupted. “How long has he been involved?”

Anakin’s eyes widened fractionally. It reminded Obi-Wan of a face he used to make as a Padawan, caught in a lie. Did he think he’d blown Del’s cover? That Obi-Wan would be upset? That was-- almost charming, actually. He _was_ curious as to how much the pair had conspired, but he wasn’t angry. He’d known Del a long time and trusted the older man with his life. If he’d thought that Anakin’s project presented a threat, he would’ve said something about it.

That he was building what sounded like an electro-weapon was, admittedly, surprising. Given Anakin’s recent behavior, however, he couldn’t justify assuming the worst would come of it. Electro-weapons weren’t just for fighting off sabers. They provided a good general defense, and if used properly could be an effective means of attack. Obi-Wan couldn’t deny the appeal of having Anakin fighting beside him again. It’d been a while, and he’d missed it.

“Since Pijal,” Anakin admitted. The words came out stiff, and through them, Obi-Wan scented uncertainty. “Is it a problem?”

“That you’ve been speaking with Del? I don’t see how it could be.”

The younger man’s frown deepened. “You know what I mean.”

He did. Obi-Wan just hadn’t wanted to answer immediately. He needed time to think over what to say. Anakin had obviously put off this conversation for a reason, and he didn’t want to upset their equilibrium by offending him. Mercurial as he was, the younger man was easily upset. More often than not, Obi-Wan had done so without even realizing.

“I think you know,” he began, keeping his eyes on Anakin’s, “that I can’t return your saber. It was--” 

He paused, carding through all the things he might say: that the blade had been dishonored; that Anakin had lost his right to it by giving in to senseless cruelty; that returning it would feel like excusing the deaths of children, and he couldn’t do that. One by one he dismissed them, though. They wouldn’t help.

“It was misused,” he settled on, which was diplomatic, but not quite safe. There was enough edge to the word that he felt Anakin’s nerves peel back from it. “Do you understand that?” He paused, and when the younger man didn’t speak: “Yes or no, Anakin. I need an answer.”

Anakin hesitated. Obi-Wan didn’t press again. He wanted cooperation, not to beat something out of him. In any case, he was aware that they hadn’t broached the topic before. They’d spent so long avoiding it that he couldn’t fault Anakin for being cagey.

“Yes,” he said eventually, and Obi-Wan chose to believe it.

“Good. That aside, I’m not opposed to you being armed. You’re good in a fight, and it’d be a waste not to let you do it. So long as you aren’t planning to shock me: no, it isn’t a problem.”

 _He wouldn’t tell you if he was,_ a nagging voice supplied. Obi-Wan ignored it. It was weak, and he didn’t really believe it. Whatever else Anakin felt, he’d at least come to the conclusion that attacking wasn’t helpful. Obi-Wan liked to think they were more comfortable than that, but ultimately wouldn’t assume. Not until Anakin had given more proof, and though he was warming, that might still take time.

“It’s getting late,” he continued, when Anakin didn’t respond. The other’s eyes were still fixed on his, narrow and piercing. “And some of us, unfortunately, need to sleep. I’m going to bed. Are you coming, or are you going to work?”

The question teased up a flare of suspicion. Obi-Wan felt it burst to life through their bond. He felt too, in its wake, Anakin rooting through what he could reach of his feelings, picking them over for a hint of deception. It was an uncomfortable feeling, but he didn’t close himself off. He had nothing to hide. Anakin could look all he wanted. Subverting the urge to clam up, Obi-Wan just stood and stretched his stiffness out, waiting for Anakin to speak.

“For a few more minutes,” the younger man said after a while, trying to call his bluff.

Obi-Wan didn’t object. 

“Just don’t overdo it. We leave at first light.”

As he left the crew hold, he felt the other man’s eyes follow him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Del: guys I’ve got bad news…Kuli... went absolutely ape shit  
> Obi-Wan: *visibly shocked* *hurt* *full of regret*  
> Anakin: hmm 😶 u don’t say 😶


	11. The Jedi Killer, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unpheenix made more art! [Check out](https://unpheenix.tumblr.com/post/616015807797985280/character-concept-art-for-come-down-from-your-holy) this concept of Del, Kuli, and Lars that I'm in love with!
> 
> Bryyee also made some, too! [Here's](https://autumn-chill.tumblr.com/post/616137714472009728/anakin-skywalker-as-he-first-appears) a very lovely depiction of Anakin's early appearance :) 
> 
> Enjoy the update! The action and timeline is pretty compact this time; just about two days, I think. I didn’t want to dig too much into rendezvous territory, because I have plans for that arc that I think should stand alone :)

When Nema finally spoke-- and it took a moment, though not because he was surprised to see them-- it was with a Coruscanti accent so crisp that it bowled Obi-Wan over. 

_How in the world did a Senate District topsider get themselves involved here?_

Stupid question, he supposed. At least, Anakin would say so if he’d bothered with wondering it aloud. And the younger man would be right. It didn’t matter what path had led Nema here. What mattered was that he was, and that he and his men had gotten the jump. 

"You boys are a long way from the capital," their host said, voice a pleasantly oaky baritone. 

From where he leaned against the far wall of what must’ve been a control room, he spread his large hands in a gesture of interest. That, or he was drawing attention to the four guardsmen who’d fallen back to flank him. Not that they needed help getting attention. They’d done an admirable job of that themselves only minutes ago. After intercepting himself and Anakin, the group had marched them along at blaster point, the bite of their muzzles sharp and impossible to ignore. 

“Not quite as far from Alazhi Outpost,” Nema continued, not at all bothered by his guests’ silence. “But most locals would call this ‘nowhere’, and I’d have to agree. So maybe you’d like to tell me why you’re here.”

Obi-Wan didn't answer. Thankfully, neither did Anakin. The younger man just stood beside him: stiff and tall, jaw screwed shut in a parody of resting attention. He was anything but restul, of course, but only Obi-Wan knew that. Anakin’s grim expression might’ve betrayed annoyance, but it couldn’t communicate how swarming and alert he was. The Force swam in a frenzy all around him, pounding against Obi-Wan hard enough to be a distraction.

Admittedly, this wasn't how he’d expected the day to go. Nothing about the morning had so much as hinted at it. In fact, up until the moment they were arrested, Obi-Wan had assumed things were going well. His mistake, he supposed. When had that ever been the case? His and Anakin’s assignments were famous for going shuura-shaped.

The trek hadn’t been the problem. Not the real one, anyway. It was miserable, but Obi-Wan had expected that. Jungles were difficult to navigate, and not just because they lacked footpaths. Their underbrush were notoriously tricky. Thyferra’s was no exception; it was a mess of brambles, sinking mud, and thorny vines so thickly clustered that he and Anakin had to tear through. The tight weave of vegetation concealed reaching roots, and every few feet their boots caught under one, sending them stumbling.

It took nearly four hours to reach the valley. When they did, they were so exhausted that they had to lay down. Once out from under the canopy, they’d collapsed into the grass, not caring that their faces and necks were exposed to the sun. The beat was oppressive, but as they were already sweating, it didn’t overly matter if they got hot. Anyway, Obi-Wan had already resigned himself to having a breakout of freckles when this was done.

Once they’d recovered, finding the base had been easy. Much easier, in fact, than he’d counted on. The section of mountain they’d come out facing had a cave mouth in the middle of it, and given how close they were to Nema’s ship, they assumed it was the one. An assumption that, happily, turned out to be correct. 

When they reached the opening after a short walk across the valley, they found it fit on either side with small powerpacks. Adhered to the rock, they generated a humming red laser gate, through which could be seen a corridor stretching back some ways. The wide mouth funneled into a narrow passage, lined all the way down with inlaid floor lights. Set several feet from each other, they guided the way back to an open turbolift, which stood as unguarded as the entrance.

 _Lucky,_ he’d thought, not bothering to consider the alternative: that it was being monitored, and he and Anakin just couldn’t see how. That line of thought was too dreary for how well things had been going. More than that, he wanted for once to assume the best. He’d historically left that to Anakin or young Ahsoka, preferring himself to proceed more cautiously. Still sore to the bone over the failure on Onderon, however, he’d let excitement overshadow good sense.

Familiar with the tech being used and its shortcomings, Obi-Wan hadn't let Anakin take the generators apart. He could’ve, or at least hotwired them open, but doing so wasn’t necessary. It might trigger an alarm, which would complicate things unnecessarily when all they really needed to do was be patient. 

_They’re unstable,_ he’d explained, touching one of the powerpacks. It was already so searingly hot that he’d jerked away. _They can’t supply continuous power or they’ll combust. Any moment now, we should be able to sneak through._

He wasn't happy with the directive-- Anakin had never liked waiting-- but he complied, begrudgingly deferring to Obi-Wan’s lead. He spent the few minutes it took for the generators to hit the off cycle pacing in front of the gate like a vornskr. The forced move murkily around him, tinged with adrenaline that mounted with every passing minute. By the time the gate opened, he was poised to spring and leapt through, leaving the older man to skitter after him.

The generators kicked back on seconds later, trapping them inside. They stood for a while where they’d come to stop, allowing their eyes to adjust. When they had, they took stock of the hall stretching out ahead, making sure it was safe before going too far. Like the gate and turbolift, no part of the foyer appeared to be watched. For good reason, Obi-Wan noted. While the cave mouth might’ve been long, there didn’t appear to be any connecting tunnels this far up. It was a one way shot. Any complexities in this particular system must’ve been below.

Motioning for Anakin to follow, Obi-Wan had hurried toward the lift retrofitted into the cave’s shaft. Once they were inside, he’d punched the ‘down’ button and seconds later, the door ground shut. There was a momentary delay before the gears unstuck and the lift lurched into a drop. It was a jerky, uncomfortable ride, made worse by the whining suspension cables that sounded ready to snap at any moment. Obi-Wan spent all of it with his knuckles white around the handrail. Anakin, however, was barely affected. If he noticed the sway at all, he was more concerned with something in the topmost corner that’d caught his eye.

 _Think anyone's watching?_ the younger man asked over the scream of machinery.

He pointed up to a blinking red dot so small that Obi-Wan wouldn’t have noticed himself. After seeing it, however, he recognized the blip as the mark of an active security cam. The realization gave him pause, and for the first time since entering, he began to wonder-- but of course, by then, it hardly mattered, and he shrugged the question off. 

_If they are,_ he'd said, _we'll find out soon._

How soon exactly, though, turned out to be a surprise. As soon as the lift ground to a halt, Obi-Wan picked up on a disturbance: something moving just outside the durasteel door. Before he could think to punch another button and jam it closed, the clam shell opened up into a tunnel. It was wider than the one above, better lit, and spotted with blast doors.

It was also manned by the four armed guards flanking Nema now.

Across the control room, Nema grew tired of waiting. He sighed, loosely crossing his thick arms. They were well muscled, suggesting that he was no stranger to manual labor, and his shoulders and chest were both exceptionally broad. Of the five hostiles, he was the tallest, and if Obi-Wan had to guess, more than doubly outweighed Anakin. He was large in every sense, and the ropy scars that marred his face made him look dangerous even in a casual lean. 

"Nothing?" he asked, affecting disappointment. The accent once again took Obi-Wan by surprise. “Come, don’t be boring. Try to think.”

“I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan said, finding his voice, “but I believe there’s been some sort of mistake.”

Nema quirked a brow. At least, he tried to. His forehead creased, but a few of the necessary muscles were paralyzed by scar tissue.

“That’s a funny way to phrase it. From what I could see, it looked more like forced entry.” 

He pushed off the wall and let his arms drop. His hands curled into fists at his sides. He didn’t approach, however. He only jerked his head, indicating something over Obi-Wan’s shoulder. When the other man craned to look, he saw the wall was fit with a security screen. It was wide, partitioned into twelfths, and each segment connected up to its own personal security cam. The first was pointed at the laser gate from a recess in the ceiling, with the rest leading back toward the turbolift. Obi-Wan grimaced, cursing himself for not having noticed them.

He made sure to wipe the expression clean before turning back to Nema. When he did, he offered the man a slight smile before casting his eyes down, miming embarrassment.

“I can see why you’d think so.” He resisted crossing his arms, knowing that it’d make him look defensive. “But I assure you, my friend and I meant no offense.”

Nema snorted. “Speak for yourself. Your friend looks like he means plenty.”

Obi-Wan didn’t have to look aside to know that was true. Anakin’s annoyance was an oil slick in the Force. It’d begun to spread when he realized Obi-Wan meant to let them be captured. When he’d seen the guards, the younger man was ready to fight, and it was only Obi-Wan’s hissing _no_ that stopped him. Like he had at the gate, Anakin deferred, but not happily. He’d allowed his displeasure to curl around Obi-Wan’s ankles, and been stewing in it ever since.

“You’ll have to forgive him,” Obi-Wan said, waving his partner off. The motion teased out a fresh peel of irritation. “He isn’t well, and we just had a long walk. I suppose you could say it’s been a difficult day.”

“I don't doubt it. Nearest outpost is-- what, boys? Eighty kilometers?”

The two pairs of men on either side of him smirked in unison. It was unsettling, as were their identical, mechanical laughs.

“At least,” one droned, not at all organic.

Droids, then, though he wouldn’t have guessed by looking at them. Their synthskin was the most realistic he’d ever seen, and they moved more fluidly than most models on the market. _Inconvenient,_ Obi-Wan thought. His new plan had hinged on being able to compel them. Realizing that Nema was chatty, he’d hoped to distract him with conversation while slipping into his guards’ minds, convincing them to drop their weapons. If they were droids, however, the tactic wouldn’t work. 

Well, no matter. He could come up with something else. He’d just have to play for more time.

“Eighty?” he repeated, tilting his head. "Have we really come that far?”

“I’m afraid so, and as fit as you may look--” Nema made a show of raking his eyes down Obi-Wan’s front. “--something tells me you didn’t cross all that in a day.”

Obi-Wan concealed a frown. He didn’t like how the other was looking at him. He could feel the heat in his appraisal. It settled around his waist where Obi-Wan’s hand had come to rest, pinching around its narrowest point. Anakin must’ve felt it too, because beside him the younger man bled a sudden wariness into their bond.

“We didn’t,” he admitted, ignoring his own unease and canting his hips more favorably. If it kept their target engaged, Obi-Wan was willing to play. Anakin, unfortunately, didn’t seem to be. Hot on the heels of suspicion over Nema’s gaze came a wave of-- something defensive. “It’s probably more accurate to say that we’ve had a difficult several.”

Nema hummed, attention lingering a moment longer before cutting back up.

“Five would be the most accurate, though, so why not say what you mean and start the count from when you left Naboo?”

Obi-Wan’s mind glitched, or maybe Anakin’s did. Whichever it was, it lit up their bond with a scream of static. It blared for several seconds before Obi-Wan shook his head clear.

“I’m afraid that I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t you? Well, that's interesting.” Nema stepped forward, coming to rest beside a desk that ate up the center of the room. It was scattered all over with flimsi, and at the far corner was a primed blaster. “Would you like to know why?”

Before Obi-Wan could say one way or the other, the man gave a theatrical sigh.

“Because,” he drawled, “a certain Gungan recently sent out an APB to all his closest friends. Can you imagine what it said?” Obi-Wan thought he could. "That two men, the spit of you, had just robbed him blind.”

Obi-Wan felt the rumbling static build again. He bit his tongue, willing the noise to tamp down.

“I don’t--”

“Save it,” Nema interrupted. “I’m not interested. Normally, I wouldn’t even care. If the old frog is stupid enough to get drugged and hustled, it’s his own fault. You boys have to make a living as well as he does.” He laid one palm flat on the desk, balancing his weight into a lean. “Unfortunately, you embarrassed him enough to put a price on your heads. Which, sorry to say, _does_ interest me.”

As if on cue, the droid guards at Nema’s back moved forward, taking new positions over his shoulders. All of their hands came to hover expectantly over their blasters; not drawing yet, but ready to. Obi-Wan would have to be quicker.

"Of course," Nema continued, unconcerned with the growing tension, “I didn’t actually expect to be able to collect. He only offered it to those of us he called, and I just _knew_ you wouldn't be stupid enough to hit his partners next. But, I guess there really is no accounting for arrogance.”

"You'd know," Anakin sneered, unable to help himself.

Nema's genuinely delighted laugh covered Obi-Wan's groan.

"So you _can_ speak." The man took in the proud set of Anakin’s shoulders. "Are you actually a slave? Kleffi said you were, but I don't see why your master wouldn't have beaten the attitude out of you.” He looked between them, entertaining a thought that flooded the space all around him with heat. “Unless the attitude is what he likes."

Nema approximated a wink, and though his scarring ruined motion, his leering tone carried the point across. Anakin balked, shoulders slacking as the eddies around him tinged with embarrassment. Sensing the shift, Nema shrugged.

"Maybe not. Either way, it doesn't matter. Your time is up.” Waving his off hand, Nema called his guards full forward. “It’s nothing personal, I hope you know. Your luck just ran out. Happens to the best of us, eventually.”

The droids unclipped the blasters from their belts, thumbing the kill switches. Their weapons gave small, simultaneous clicks.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Anakin muttered, voice dipping low. 

All the sourness in his energy was gone, knocked out by the promise of a fight. An easy, high-spirited determination replaced it; the same that always colored Anakin’s signature before a battle. It filled the air around him with the pleasant stink of musk, and through their bond, Obi-Wan felt the other’s eagerness crank up. His face was still grim, but his excitement was palpable. 

“Don’t worry,” Nema cooed, misinterpreting the threat. “I’ll have them put you and your sweetheart down easy.”

And maybe that was their signal-- something they and Nema had practiced. Or maybe, while he’d been focused on Anakin, their target had made a motion that Obi-Wan somehow missed.

Whatever it was, when the droids facing him drew, he wasn’t quite ready.

He registered the prickle of danger too late. By the time his attention whipped, they’d taken aim. Their blasters were leveled at chest, and he heard them pull even as he was scrambling to unclip his sabers. But there wasn’t enough time. It hadn’t happened recently, but he’d made this mistake before. He might get the hilts out, but he wouldn’t be able to block. He was going to be shot, and it’d hurt like hell.

A shock of fear too foreign to be his own lanced him, and half a breath later he felt the impact. Not the one he expected, though, because blaster bolts would’ve been sharp. What actually hit him felt more like a kick to the chest. He grunted in shock, and before he had time to recover, his back crashed against something solid. It knocked the wind out of him, flaring his vision white, and it took several seconds of gasping to get his bearings. When he did, he realized that he was flat on the floor, blinking up blearily at the ceiling. The air above him crackled, and not just from the blaster bolts, but from the Force push Anakin had been quick enough to send. 

For a moment, the stillness in the room was so complete that Obi-Wan wondered if Anakin had done something else: if he’d wrapped up Nema and the droids in a coil of power strong enough to freeze them. But it was just the shock, and before Obi-Wan could scramble up, they’d recovered. Nema shouted something, and his droids took a new aim at Anakin. No good though, because he hadn’t just thrown Obi-Wan. At some point during the fall, he’d disarmed him.

Called into his hands, the freshly ignited sabers hummed, crossed defensively and poised to deflect. The twin blue blades cast his chest and face in an eerie glow that washed all the warmth out of his color. It sharpened the shadows under his jaw and strong cheeks, lending more severity to the snarl he wore. It reminded Obi-Wan of Mustafar-- how Anakin had looked at him like an animal whose pelt he wanted to wear. The memory made Obi-Wan shudder where he was sprawled, but the droids weren’t affected. They weren’t men, and the face meant nothing to them. From Nema, though, Obi-Wan felt a bloom of dread. 

His haughty expression broke and he darted behind his guards, who all closed in to open fire at Anakin. None of their shots hit the mark. With practiced flicks of his wrists, Anakin sent the bolts of plasma flying off course. Their ricochet covered the room in score marks as he moved in for his assault. Once close enough, he swept one blade along the line of them. He spun through the motion, taking their shooting hands off in a single pass. They gaped down at the stumps, all spurting dark lubricant, like they didn’t understand where the limbs had gone.

To be sporting, Anakin took a step back. He arced his blades down and waited for them to regroup. It didn’t take long. Realizing they hadn’t been cut to pieces, they surged forward in an attempt to overwhelm him. Swinging either bare fists or vibroknives they’d tugged out of thigh sheaths, they fell on him as a unit. It didn't work. Anakin dodged and ducked, stoking their confusion for several minutes before getting bored enough to turn on them again. Swinging the sabers in tandem, he cut across his opponents’ bellies, slicing synthskin and plating down to the gears. All four of them bent, bodies failing from the damage to their servos. To be sure, though, Anakin took their heads. They rolled in different directions, the stumps of their necks spitting oil and emitting the sizzling sound of fried circuitry. 

They collapsed in a heap, and he gave each a kick before turning his attention to Nema. By then, the man was sweating, stock-still behind his desk.

“What’s the matter?” Anakin asked, stepping over the sparking carnage. “Not usually the one caught off guard?” He approached slowly, one blade dragging along the floor to leave a char mark. “Or did you just get used to Padawans?”

The jeer sent Nema into action. He reached for the blaster on his desk, but Anakin was too quick. Leaping forward, he slashed a blade into the path and Nema just missed it, stumbling backward with a pitiful screech. Unable to find balance, he became a victim of his own weight. He fell against the wall, sliding down onto his knees. Anakin’s swing followed him, carrying through momentum to cross with the other, both of which, to Obi-Wan’s horror, were aimed at Nema’s neck.

His gut knotted, churning up bile into his chest. Anakin’s shove had been hard, and though he’d managed to sit up, Obi-Wan’s head still swam from smacking the floor. He was too nauseous and dizzy to drag himself over and stop the swing. Anakin was going to kill; Obi-Wan could feel it. The desire to was a thunderhead already breaking.

“ _Anakin_!” he screamed, voice cracking under the strain.

To his shock, the blades came to halt. The other's shoulders tensed with the effort of breaking momentum, and just in time. The sabers thrummed so close to either side of Nema’s throat that they had to be burning him. The man didn’t so much as tremble, though. If he did, he might bump one. He was caged by the cross, and even breathing too sharply would cut him.

“I’m listening,” Anakin said, tone even and cool.

He sounded as if Obi-Wan had called on him in class, not just stopped him from killing a man. His voice was steady and calm, and reaching out through the Force, Obi-Wan felt the easiness mirrored in his energy. It was quiet and focused, his signature a uniform color instead of splotched all over with the bruises of warring emotions. As he so often did, he’d found his center in the fight. Obi-Wan hadn’t sensed such clarity in him in over a year.

“Incapacitate,” he reminded, the word too airy to be a command. And Anakin _needed_ commands. Suggestions meant little.

“You sure?” Anakin's grip on the hilts tightened, but he held. Small favors. “That wasn’t his plan for you.”

“His plan doesn’t matter. Just worry about ours." A pause, then, hoping it would help: "Please.”

He hesitated for long enough that Obi-Wan wondered-- but no. The sabers powered down. He watched their beams retract, blowing out a breath so ragged and grateful that it made his tender head pound. Nema gave a weak sound of his own, which Anakin met with a look of disgust. Rearing back, he smacked his head with the grip of one saber. The ridges cracked against his skull and the man’s eyes rolled before he fell limply to the side.

The room was quiet again, except for Obi-Wan’s breaths. Those fluttered, weak and uneven from lingering nausea. It made him sway where he sat, flipping his stomach. He tried to tamp it, but one other thing was eating up too much focus. 

Anakin had the sabers. He’d taken them like it was nothing, like he could’ve done it at any point before. The thought made Obi-Wan uncomfortable, and his mouth filled up with spit as he watched the younger man heft the hilts. He tested their resting weight before letting his hands drop again and turning to face his old master.

“For someone who spent so much time lecturing me about saber safety, you were pretty easy to disarm. I mean--” He gave a thin, distant sort of laugh. “--did you even have these clipped?”

Not waiting for him to answer, Anakin began taking slow steps forward. He approached Obi-Wan like an animal he didn’t want to startle, never once breaking eye contact, and it was strange to have so much of his attention when Anakin had spent months denying it wherever he could. Just then, though, he was focused, keenly aware of the power shift. Obi-Wan couldn't scent any immediate hostility; still, everything in his gut said to scramble back.

He resisted, not wanting to risk offending the younger man, who’d just defended him, after all. Reminding himself that they were partners, and that they seemed to have agreed to trust each other, Obi-Wan forced himself to wait. It wouldn't help to move, in any case. Anakin had the advantage, and if he wanted him dead, he would be.

Anakin came to a stop between his knees. After a moment's hesitation, he dropped into a crouch. Obi-Wan splayed on instinct, allowing him to settle. When he did, how close they were was a shock. Heat leached from him into Obi-Wan's thighs and core. He could smell the other’s sweat, and if Anakin leaned even slightly, their bodies would brush. There were no more than a handful of inches between their chests, and that Anakin’s was sturdier than his had never been more apparent.

“You should be more careful,” Anakin said, the words a whisper. “A few months ago, this would’ve cost you your head.”

How easily he admitted it made blood rush to Obi-Wan's feet. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so helpless.

"Would've," the older man repeated. "Not will?"

Anakin snorted. "Maybe don't press your luck."

To drive the point home, he brought one saber up and knocked its emitter against the underside of Obi-Wan's chin. It was excessive; the threat was heavy enough already, but Anakin had never been subtle. He pressed in, and the rim was still so hot that Obi-Wan hissed. He didn't draw back, though. He suspected the other would chase him. Something crossed their bond from the other's side, dangerously playful. Obi-Wan got the sense that he’d been dragged into a game.

Not wanting to disappoint-- whatever Anakin was fishing for, Obi-Wan suspected it mattered to him a great deal-- he called the other’s bluff, tilting his chin up to fully expose the sweaty line of his throat. Anakin's eyes narrowed, and when Obi-Wan held the position, adjusted his grip to ghost his thumb over the activator. The pressure was too light to ignite it, but Obi-Wan's belly knotted anyway. If Anakin pulled, he’d be dead before he smelled ozone. 

He kept his chin up, though, refusing to take the bait. He held Anakin's gaze, trying to get his pulse under control. All hope of that crumbled when the younger man dragged the weapon back, bumping it against the meeting of his neck. Anakin let it linger for a moment before tracing along the curve leading to the hollow of Obi-Wan's jaw. He nestled it there, digging into the thumping pulse point sharply enough to leave a bruise. It hurt, and hoping to relieve some of the pressure, he rolled his head, baring the vulnerable spot further.

Anakin hummed at that, light and almost amused. Or, no-- the rumble registered closer to pleased. His mouth had parted slightly, and the tip of his tongue came to rest on the cutting edge of one of his teeth. His brow creased as he fixed the fluttering skin under the weapon with his full attention. He looked like he could feel the smack of it, and through their bond, maybe he could. Obi-Wan didn’t doubt that he was projecting.

“Feeling brave, Obi?”

Before he could stop himself, he rasped out a little sound at the name. He hadn’t expected it, and even jokingly, hearing it cooed triggered a reaction far less like fear than it was shame. It tangled up with the anxiety still idling in his gut, all warm and base and unfamiliar. When Anakin scented it, something undecipherable flickered through their bond. Only for a second, though. 

The younger man caught it and dragged it back, immediately turning the saber away. Obi-Wan blinked, a little dazed, and looked to it. Anakin had let his wrist go limp, neutralizing the threat. When his eyes cut back to the younger man, his head was canted curiously. Whatever he was thinking, though, he was careful to partition it off. Before Obi-Wan could go digging, he nodded to the outturned hilt, muttering for the older man to take it. 

When he did, Anakin stood, using their joint grip to drag him up. Once his old master had reset his balance, Anakin released. He gave up the other just as easily, attaching it to the clip on Obi-Wan’s belt. After tugging it to be sure the latch was secure, he stepped back, showing his palms as he did. They were flat and empty, and from anyone else, it might’ve read as supplication. But this was Anakin, so it didn't. He was grinning a little too roguishly, and when he spoke, his words were more tease than apology.

“Don’t let me do that again.”

* * *

It was too late to start the walk back to their shuttle, so they agreed to spend the night in Nema's base. After calling on the Force together and dropping him into stasis, they set out from the command center in search of the bedroom. It didn't take long; the tunnel system turned out to be small. The hall the turbolift dumped into was the only one, and even taking the time to explore every room they passed, it took less than an hour to find the bunker’s sleeper.

It turned out to be as unpleasant as the man they’d captured. It was a square, squat space without any furniture. What Anakin guessed was the bed was just a mat on the floor: wide enough for two, piled with ratty blankets, and shoved against the wall. From the back corner of the ceiling hung a bare spigot positioned over a drain drilled into the floor. It was probably a source of drinking water, as well as the Jedi killer’s shower. It smelled like limestone and rust, and sweaty as he was, Anakin wasn’t hard up enough to touch it.

"Want to freshen up?" he joked, nodding to the spigot.

Obi-Wan shut the door behind them before following the motion. When he did, his nose scrunched. 

"Not quite that badly. I’ll wait for our sonic. At least I know when it last got cleaned.”

Balancing one hand on the door frame, the older man kicked off his boots. After nudging their toes against the wall he unclipped his sabers, dropping them into one before turning his attention to the bed. He grimaced, looking almost as unhappy about the condition of it as he was the shower. Without any other option, though, he resigned himself, probably thinking like Anakin: _not the worst thing I’ve ever slept in._

After sighing and pushing back the bangs from his forehead, Obi-Wan dropped to his knees on the mat. Anakin watched him pad over it cautiously, testing the plushness and jabbing the blankets to see if anything scuttled out. Once satisfied that the bed was both usable and free of rats, he gave into exhaustion and collapsed. He groaned and rolled onto his back.

“Are you coming?” he asked, already sounding sleepy.

Anakin didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he knelt to unlace his boots, plucking at the ties to buy himself time. Once they were loose, he dropped to his bottom and ease the boots off, angling to avoid catching his toes.

“That depends,” he hedged. “How upset are you?” 

“Over what?”

“Earlier.”

He didn’t elaborate. He knew that he didn’t have to. It’d been less than two hours since he’d pulled that stunt with the sabers. It’d felt good at the time: having his old master so still and compliant. Now, though, he was starting to regret it. 

Over the last few weeks, his and Obi-Wan’s truce had gotten more comfortable. Their talks were less awkward, and falling asleep in the same room no longer made Anakin’s skin crawl. They could sit together, strategize, and for the most part peacefully share space. They weren’t on edge like they’d been in the beginning, which was nice. Obi-Wan had started to trust him, and with that came more freedom than Anakin could’ve hoped for back on Coruscant. He didn’t want to have ruined that. It felt good to have some say in how their missions went and what they did. It made him feel useful, gave him something to focus on besides his feelings.

“Ah,” the older man hummed. “That.”

Anakin looked up from his boots in time to see the other’s brow furrow. Forehead crumpled thoughtfully, Obi-Wan tilted his head back to stare at the hilts sticking out of his boots. He hummed, like he was still deciding how he felt, the long line of throat curving pleasantly. Without wanting to, Anakin thought about how the emitter looked jammed under his jaw. He could feel the other’s pulse thumping through the metal, and it’d made his own jump.

“I’m sure you remember from the academy,” Obi-Wan continued, making up his mind, “that taking someone’s saber is a breach of etiquette.” He tucked his chin and rolled onto his side, propping his head up to look at Anakin from across the floor. “That goes double if who you took it from is a superior, who not twenty hours ago said you couldn’t have one.”

Anakin considered exploiting the loophole in that. Technically, Obi-Wan said he couldn’t have back his _personal_ saber. It wasn’t worth the argument, though, especially since one of the two he’d taken had, in fact, been his old one.

“If this is the lead-up to a lecture--” he groaned, chucking his boots to join Obi-Wan’s by the door.

“It isn’t,” the other interrupted. “May I finish, or would you just prefer to assume the worst?”

Anakin didn’t believe that for a second. Obi-Wan never wasted an opportunity to tell him off. Wanting to know where they stood, though, and how stupid it’d be to fall asleep next to him, Anakin nodded for him to continue.

“Thank you.” The man shifted, pushing himself up a little higher. “It _was_ a breach, and I’d like you to promise not to do it again. That said, given the circumstance, being angry would make me ungrateful.” He chanced a smile. “You might be surprised to learn that I prefer most anything to being shot.” 

Anakin pursed his lips. That-- felt too easy, like Obi-Wan was trying to lure him into a trap. Reaching out through the Force though, he couldn’t sense any deception. The other's energy was rosey and relaxed. It tumbled around him as pillowy soft as clouds, and the older man didn’t close himself off when he felt Anakin digging. He kept their bond open, didn’t throw up any walls to hide anger behind. The heaviest thing Anakin could sense was how bone tired he was. The stress of the day had worn him out, and he wanted to sleep.

Anakin could sympathize. His body hurt from the strain of the trek, and while getting to use a saber again had felt good, his new range of motion wasn’t ideal for Djem So. Falling back on the form had put massive stress on his shoulders, and the burns splattered there felt fresh and torn open. With his cream back on the ship, the most he could do to relieve it was sleep. If Obi-Wan was willing to let this go for now, he wouldn’t complain.

Rocking up onto his knees, he crawled over to the sleep mat. As he approached, the other shifted closer to the wall. He pressed his back against it, giving Anakin space to lay flat on his belly, which he’d have to if he wanted a chance at sleep. Even with a fresh coat of cream applied, he couldn’t stand to lay on his back or sides. The damage was too deep, and if a scratchy cot irritated it, laying on what was basically a bare stone floor might cripple him.

“You didn’t say it,” Obi-Wan muttered, watching as Anakin lowered himself.

He waited until he’d gotten comfortable to respond. Crossing his forearms to make a headrest, he laid his cheek flat and looked over at Obi-Wan. 

“Say what?”

“That you won’t do it again.” Beside him, the other settled down as well. He let his head come to rest in the crook of his elbow. “I asked for you to promise.”

“Then I do,” he said. “Really. Now, get some sleep. With how much dead weight we're carrying, the hike back is going to be even worse.”

* * *

She knew who was behind her before he said anything. Kuli would recognize Lars’ energy anywhere. They’d known each other since they were Padawans, and though he was several years younger, they’d managed to become close then. Their masters were friends, and often partnered up for missions. As such, she and Lars were forced to spend time together: either on a ship, an expedition, or in the next room over while their masters played catch-up.

She hadn’t disliked it as much as she first thought she would.

She didn’t have many friends at the time. Most beings her age found her, at best, disagreeable. They said she was aggressive, invasive, or even a bully. They didn’t like how she always tried to take the lead. Outside of lessons, it was hard for her to convince other Padawans to spend time with her. There were a few exceptions, but the general consensus was that something was wrong with her.

In hindsight, all of them had been right.

Lars hadn’t thought that, though. Maybe it was because when they’d met she was already in her late teens, and he was twelve. The age difference was nothing now, but at the time it was huge. Whenever he was with her, Lars was starstruck. He hung off her sleeves, constantly asking for stories about her adventures off Coruscant. He thought she was a hero, and she found that she liked that. It was so different from how beings her own age thought. To them, and many instructors, she was an outlier. Someone gifted in the Force, but unmanageable.

Lars disagreed. Or at least, he had until recently. Since Onderon, she’d felt him start to reevaluate.

“You missed a call from Obi-Wan,” he said from somewhere behind her. 

She didn’t turn. She kept her eyes locked on the horizon. Out there, beyond her feet buried deep in damp sand, was an ocean that looked and felt endless. She’d spent most of every night since they landed staring out at it, trying to imagine what it’d be like to sink to the bottom. As she sat, matching her breaths to the beat of the tide, she thought of the fish she’d see, and of how many feet down she’d be before she drowned.

Lars sighed loudly enough for it to be heard over the breakers. She felt his annoyance blow through the Force like wind: annoyance with her, himself, and the situation. It all read clear in his groundswell.

“He and Anakin are inbound,” he continued, ignoring the fact that she hadn’t asked for details. “They have their target in stasis. Del, Obi, and I are going to handle the interrogation when they get here.”

 _Anakin,_ she thought. Was that what he was calling the boy now? She knew that Del was, but it was a shock to hear it from Lars. He gave her a chance to respond. She didn’t take it. She just kept staring, enjoying how Bestine’s twin moonlight glittered off the water.

“Or, just keep stonewalling. That works, too.”

“What do you want me to say?” she grumbled, tucking her chin between her knees.

The response seemed to surprise him, but he recovered quickly.

“Something. _Anything_. I’ve been so worried about you.” He sighed again. “At least look at me, please.”

It was an achingly open request, and she wanted to honor it. Wanted to turn and ask him to sit, apologize for everything she’d done and thought about doing, and not just recently. Not just since the Purge began. He deserved more than that, for every year he’d stuck with her. He was so childishly loyal, and there was something _wrong_ with her. There always had been. She knew that: something deep-seated and so very patient, that only seemed to come back worse the longer she ignored it.

“What for?” she snapped, before she could say what she knew she should. Because if she did, if she exposed that nerve, there was no telling what would come out. "Think I'll try to drown myself before you boys can put me on trial?"

She felt him flinch, heard the sand crunch under his feet as he stepped back. A long moment passed before he spoke again. In it, she could almost feel him gnawing his tongue. She braced, not sure what to expect.

"Whose fault is it," he asked, “that you're back under fire again? No one made you go rogue, but here we are: all suffering for it. Like last time. Like every time. What’d you expect? For Del to just let it go? Don’t be stupid."

He shifted, planting his weight more firmly. She pictured him squaring his narrow shoulders and glaring down. 

"I don't understand you," he hissed, sounding skinned. “You aren’t the only one who lost everything when the order came through. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of--” He cut himself off. “But you don’t see me taking that out on everyone else." He paused to blow out a long, shattered breath. "If you’re determined to stay miserable, fine. I can’t stop you. But even Anakin’s getting better, so don’t expect me to give a damn about your excuse.”

She huffed, feeling like she’d kicked her in the chest, but the sound was too faint to be heard over the tide. Behind her, Lars’ anger billowed out like smoke. Before he could say anything else, though, he left. She heard him turn, kicking up sand all the way back to the ship. She waited until the boarding ramp closed before unfolding. She laid down in the sand and stared up at the stars, eyes wet and bleary.

She thought again about how much of a relief it’d be to drown.

* * *

It was well after nightfall when he and Anakin hit Bestine’s atmo and began cutting a path toward Del’s coordinates. After double checking that their navicomputer had properly loaded them, Anakin dipped below the clouds to complete the flight. The surface being what it was-- a vast series of oceans and seas-- staying above cover could mean overshooting their target. Even the major islands were nothing compared to the water; the minor rock Del’s team had chosen would be easy to miss. 

Eager to end their mission, both men focused on scouting out the island. While the navicomputer blipped, Obi-Wan kept his attention through the front viewport. By the light of the planet’s moons, he scanned the seemingly endless surface for signs of an outcrop. Half an hour into the search, he thought he caught something in the distance. 

“Could that be it?” he asked.

When he had Anakin’s attention, he indicated the dark shape. It was some four miles ahead and curved like a half-moon; a scar on the face of the water.

"Maybe," the younger man muttered. "Ease back on the thrusters."

He did as he was asked and felt their speed drop. The adjustment would give them ten more minutes before they were in danger of flying over. Anakin, though, turned out not to need that long. His attention only toggled between the mass and their navi readouts for a few seconds before he gave a nod.

“I think so. The distance is right, and we've got a supporting readout. Look.” 

He tapped another panel set high in the instrumentation. It picked up surface information, interpreting nearby anomalies. Checking it over, Obi-Wan saw that it'd already registered the island as well something inorganic at one end. It was impossible to tell what-- the tech was old and readout basic. Given what he knew about this sector of Bestine, however, it was promising. There were very few settlements this far out from the primary ocean. 

“Del’s ship?” he guessed.

“Only one way to find out.” 

Anakin reached across the console to manually input the command for their descent. When it took, the shuttle lurched, kicking into a dive without warning. Obi-Wan’s gut clenched, but the knots unfurled when Anakin retook the controls. With one hand he tilted their nose up to soften the dip, and with the other manipulated the lay of their wings. 

“Dampen the thrusters more,” he said. “We need drag. A lot of it.” His attention cut aside to check their speed. “We’re coming in too hot, so unless you want to take a swim--”

He trailed off, tone quirking up playfully. Across the cockpit, Obi-Wan fixed him with a glare. The other met it head on, smirking in perfect defiance, and wasn’t that familiar? Wasn’t that so like before? 

If he thought about it-- and he could, now that the adrenaline was gone -- much of what’d happened the last few days felt like before. So much so that Obi-Wan hardly knew what to make of it. That Anakin had saved and defended him still felt surreal. Not to speak of the fact that he’d returned the sabers, when he either could’ve refused or cut his old master’s throat.

For a second, Obi-Wan had thought he actually might. How he’d traced his jugular whipped Obi-Wan’s pulse to a froth. But nothing had come of it. Whatever his strange friend had been looking for, he'd found it and come away satisfied. 

He didn’t know what it meant, or if it really meant anything. He wanted it to, though. It felt like progress. Like some of the air between them had finally cleared, and that perhaps Anakin really was settling down. Obi-Wan didn't expect him to ever fully be the same; none of them were. What'd happened couldn't be changed, and the damage done was permanent. Maybe, though, going forward, there wouldn't have to be anymore passed between them.

That was getting ahead, though, and Obi-Wan knew better than to let his heart get away from his head. One event could be a fluke, however promising. It was best to remain cautious, even if optimistically. That Anakin was apparently capable and willing to disarm him was a development worth keeping an eye on. He’d promised not to do it again, which he might’ve meant, or not. Only time and resisted temptation would prove he could keep his word.

“I don’t think I’m dressed for a swim,” he said finally, averting his gaze. He scanned his controls, making sure the right stick was in hand. He pulled back on it to drop their speed a few more grades. “This fine old bucket isn’t either, so let’s avoid waterlogging the engines.”

Anakin huffed a low laugh and together, they guided the ship down in a very near comfortable silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the first thoughts I had about this fic was the moment where Anakin has the saber to Obi-Wan’s throat. I basically built the whole fic around it, and I’m glad I finally got to this point. It turned out WAY different on the page than I expected, because the relationship/overall mood has progressed to a point I wasn’t sure it’d be at when I first imagined it. Which is exciting! It’s nice that I got to surprise myself.
> 
> Hope y'all enjoyed the read! The only downside to this going so differently from how I originally planned is that it took me FOREVER to just convince myself to go with the flow and let the mood progress how it wanted to. A little nervous about this one, but I'm pleased with the finished result, and hope everyone else is too <3


	12. Rendezvous, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unpheenix has ONCE AGAIN made me weepy with beautiful art inspired by the previous chapter. Check it out [here](https://unpheenix.tumblr.com/post/617700606754373632/to-drive-the-point-home-he-brought-one-saber-up)!
> 
> Hope y’all enjoy the update! They’re going to be coming slower now that I’m officially back at work. Thanks for waiting, though :) Can’t wait to hear what y’all think.

Nema turned out to be a miserable coward when it was _his_ back to the wall. What Obi-Wan expected to be a taxing, uncomfortable interrogation was over barely four hours after it started. 

After coming out of stasis and finding himself in custody, Nema sidestepped the posturing from Thyferra. Speech still slurred from being kept under for several days, he immediately started to bargain for his life. He guessed that Obi-Wan, Del, and Lars wanted some sort of intel. That was fine, he insisted. He'd give it, and wouldn't try to resist any of their mental probing. If they promised to let him live, he'd happily sell them anyone they wanted.

When Del corrected the man, saying it was _his_ work they were following, he stumbled over himself to assure them it didn't matter. What they wanted and why made no difference; he didn't care.

_I just don't want to die here. Please._

"You might anyway," Lars had said. "This is a water planet. What you're asking for is to be marooned. You understand that?"

"I'll take my chances," their prisoner bleated. "Just leave me a knife or a blaster."

As far as prison bartering went, the offer wasn't very enticing. 

All three of his wardens were capable of compelling answers from him. Still, they agreed to Nema’s terms. Despicable as he was, it'd be an abuse of their power to refuse. Every panicked thrum his energy said that he was being honest. He wasn't trying to trick them; he was trying to save his skin. Refusing to go along when he was playing nice would be beneath them, and a waste of time, in any case. A voluntary interrogation was usually a swift one.

That was what interested Obi-Wan most, truthfully. Nema was vile, and Obi-Wan wanted him off his ship as quickly as possible. Being allowed to go free might be better than he deserved, but it was some consolation to know that he'd be stranded.

After each Jedi made their promise, the man didn't keep them waiting. He forced his gummy tongue to action, asking what they wanted to know, and over the course of several hours the three took turns picking him over for information.

While the hunter’s targets remained their primary concern, the fact that Nema had ties to Coruscant guided the first half of their interrogation. Since leaving the planet themselves, the only news they’d had came from Obi-Wan’s third-hand reports of gossip overheard in cantinas. What of that was accurate was impossible to know for certain, and having a slightly more reliable source made them curious. Though Nema’s interest in galactic politics turned out to be shallow, what he could tell them was undeniably better than nothing.

Since the takeover, it seemed life on Coruscant hadn’t undergone any major overhaul. The Underworld was still a hotbed of crime and gang rule, and the changes topside were billed more as renovations. The former Republic was officially being treated as nothing more than an architectural period that could be blasted away. The only exception to the rule appeared to be the Senate, which was left intact and functional. It met for sessions, though how much its votes counted tended to fall in favor of Palpatine’s allies. The Outer Rim was still disadvantaged, and there was a marked difference between how former Republic and Separatist worlds were being treated. To put it plainly: it seemed that previously contested systems were now being made an example of. There were embargos, blockades, and general withholding of aid. Any place left war torn and irradiated was being allowed to crumble. 

That Sidious was willing to allow innocent beings to suffer and die wasn't so surprising, really. It did shine a light on how graceless he was in victory, though, and gave Obi-Wan hope that there'd already be rumblings of dissent. 

Once that particular pool of knowledge had been drained, Obi-Wan steered their conversation back to the point. The change of tack jarred the man, who seemed to have forgotten by then what the Jedi actually wanted. He didn't refuse or lie, though, perhaps hoping for good marks. Whatever the reason, he spilled his own secrets willingly.

As he told it, the man had been multitasking when he made his stop on Naboo. He'd been tailing a lead for a month: a group of four that always seemed several planets ahead of him. It was made up of a human woman, a young Tholothian, and two Nautolans, all who were skilled at evasion. Early on in his pursuit, Nema had been sloppy enough to be detected; after that, they never stayed anywhere longer than a week. They navigated wildly, slipping in and out of hyperplanes and making dozens of pointless micro jumps. Sometimes, they'd even make planetfall for a couple of hours just to throw him further off the scent. While it never worked for long, it gave them enough headway for every scrap of intel he got to be days old. What he was planning to follow up before being captured was too, but Obi-Wan still demanded that he share it.

 _You want to waste the time?_ Nema had scoffed, which was the most pluck he'd shown all day. _Fine. Last I heard, they were on Alderaan. Some kind of supply run, I think. They were spotted in the capital, and it looked like someone wearing a royal guard's uniform was escorting them._

Obi-Wan and Del exchanged a look at that. The old Jedi's brow quirked, and Obi-Wan could guess where his mind went. He was thinking it himself: unless the guard was acting alone-- possible, but not likely-- who'd ordered them to give the group cover was obvious.

"You think the group was in touch with the Organas?" Anakin asked that night when Obi-Wan repeated the story for him. 

By then, Nema had been off their ship for hours. Lars and Del had taken him to the other shuttle as soon as they were finished. They’d offered to handle marooning him themselves, and still exhausted from Thyferra, Obi-Wan hadn't bothered arguing. 

As soon as the three men were out of sight, he'd shuffled off to the sleeper and fallen in bed. He didn't stir again until Anakin reboarded from wherever he’d been, by which time the sun was starting to set. Low, golden light crawled up the boarding ramp, warming the interior of the ship. The other called him from the doorway, dragging him out of deep, pleasant sleep. Obi-Wan grunted his annoyance, which Anakin curbed by offering to make him tea.

He resisted getting up until he heard the kettle whistle. The shrill noise jolted him fully awake, but the promise of getting to cradle a warm mug against his chest kept him from feeling too put out. 

Forcing himself upright, Obi-Wan finger-combed his hair before hopping to his feet and shuffling into the crew hold. When he reached it, Anakin was already waiting at one of the booths, two steaming mugs set out in front of him.

“Yes,” Obi-Wan said, tilting his mug to stir his tea. At that point, they’d been talking for nearly two hours. “At least, we assume. It’s possible the guard went rogue.”

“But you don’t think so.”

Obi-Wan shook his head. “Bail has always been a friend, and not just to me. He was on good terms with many Jedi before.”

“A lot of people were,” Anakin muttered, running a naked finger around the lip of his mug. The metal scraped quietly over ceramic. "But feelings change, and the Emperor isn’t running a clean campaign.”

The older man huffed a laugh. No, that was true. With Bail, though, the concern was unfounded.

“I can assure you he’s on our side. He and I--"

He paused, considering his approach for a moment. It wouldn't do to give too many details. Obi-Wan had promised to keep the Organas’ adoption of the twins a secret, and Anakin was sharp. It wouldn't take much to give them away. 

"We've discussed it," he decided eventually.

He brought his mug up for a sip and held the tea in his mouth, focusing on the flowery taste to keep his mind from wandering. He worried if it did, he'd think of Padme or the babies: their tiny hands, tender cheeks, and unfocused eyes. He seemed to have avoided it, though, because Anakin accepted the answer. 

"Even if that’s true, we can’t just show up on Alderaan." The younger man pushed his mug aside. "Bail might be your friend, but he’s still part of the Imperial machine. I'd bet my life on the Emperor having eyes on him."

It'd be a safe bet. That Bail had been fond of the Jedi was no great, royal secret. It'd be in the Emperor's best interest to keep a watch on him. Still, Sidious' spies couldn't see everything.

"I'm not suggesting we go," Obi-Wan said, which was true, and not just for the reason Anakin thought. "Not immediately, anyway. We'd need to make contact first."

"Which you think you can do," Anakin said flatly. "How?"

"He has a private comm in his office at the palace. It corrals messages when he's stuck off-world for a while." Obi-Wan shrugged. "It's not the fastest way to reach him by any means. As you know, senators can spend weeks at a time on Coruscant. It's reliable, though, and more to the point: secure. An outsider couldn't so much as _look_ at his office without tripping four alarms."

At that, Anakin’s eyes narrowed to slits. He didn't look like he doubted the plan-- they'd relied on the waiting game before. But, Obi-Wan still scented suspicion.

"Spend a lot of time sending secret messages?"

Obi-Wan canted his head, not quite taking his meaning. 

"I wouldn't say 'a lot', though I don't see why it'd matter. You weren't the only one with connections outside the Order."

He realized it was the wrong answer when Anakin's brow shot up, half amused and faintly scandalized. 

"You know what I mean," he grumbled, an uneasy heat flaring under his collar.

Anakin smirked. "Do I?"

"Yes. Don't be ridiculous. Bail is married."

It must’ve not been the parry he was expecting, because Anakin fixed him with an indecipherable look. His eyes tracked between Obi-Wan’s like he didn’t quite believe _something_ , but he kept a respectable distance in their bond. Whatever he suspected, he didn’t go digging through his old master’s thoughts to figure it out. Obi-Wan wasn’t sure if he should be thankful for that or not, as he still felt the need to defend the senator’s honor.

But-- no. Anakin was probably teasing, and making too much of a fuss would just encourage it. The younger man liked riling him up, and over the years had gotten good at it. That didn’t mean that Obi-Wan had to play into it foolishly.

"Are you going to raise any serious concerns?" He asked, trying to get the conversation back under control. He waited for the younger man to shake his head before continuing. “Good. It was largely already decided.”

Anakin gave a little laugh. “I thought it might be.”

He braces his hands on either side of himself. The spread flexed the stumps of his biceps and shoulders, both bared by his sleeveless undershirt. Anakin wasn’t wearing his tunic, and judging by his color, hadn’t been for most of the day. His arms and what of his chest was revealed by the neckline were tanning. Another week or so and he'd be a deep, nutty brown. 

“How long do you think it’ll take?” the younger man asked.

He shifted and so did the neckline, one lip of it bunching up to reveal a thick swell of muscle. Seeing it called up a memory: the two of them sparring, shirtless and sweating, practicing hand-to-hand in the dojo. They did it often enough, though mostly for Obi-Wan’s benefit. They were well-matched saber duelists, but Anakin was nearly unbeatable bare-fisted. He had the size advantage and a habit of fighting dirty, which made him both difficult to predict and get an edge on. More often than not, Obi-Wan was the one who found himself pinned. Most every match ended with him on his back. 

The smell of the other’s sweat and adrenaline swaddled him then, kicking up a fog in his brain. It was disorienting, and always kept him from giving up as quickly as he should’ve. Anakin was patient, though, at least in the ring. He never let Obi-Wan up until the older man formally yielded. Expecting a trick, maybe, or just enjoying the victory.

“Obi-Wan?” 

He started, realizing he’d taken too long, and tore his eyes away from the exposed bit of flesh.

“A week,” the older man guessed. “Maybe two, if he’s caught up in bureaucracy on Coruscant. I can’t imagine it taking much longer than that, though. The senators are puppet officials now, whether they realize or not.” Leaning back in his seat, he cradled his mug to his chest and fingered idly along the rim. “I trust you won’t be bored.”

Anakin shrugged the concern off. “Del and I have plenty of work to do.”

Obi-Wan’s attention cut to the younger man’s bench. The powerpack he’d been fiddling with a few days ago was still on it.

“Your arm?” he asked.

“And their shuttle. I checked it over this morning.” He shook his head. “The hull is trashed. I don’t know how they didn’t catch fire hitting atmo.”

Well, Obi-Wan thought, that was good at least. Anakin was more agreeable when he had something to do. 

“Don’t start anything you can’t finish,” he warned.

“When have I ever?”

Obi-Wan snorted, but bit back his response.

* * *

The first week passed quickly. There was plenty of work to do, and Anakin was happy to throw himself into it. He'd never liked the waiting game, especially when it involved senators. They seemed to take longer to do anything than anyone.

While their group waited for Obi-Wan’s message to be answered, Anakin fell back on his routine from Coruscant. He spent the early mornings meditating and exploring the island, then when the heat started to build, joined Del at his bench. The two of them spent most afternoons working together to finish the prosthetic mod. Once the prototype was tested and proved to work, it was just a matter of building a streamlined model. That, and fashioning a more stable disruptor band than the flimsy rubber one they ran the test with.

It was nice, Anakin thought, to work with the old Jedi again. He'd missed Del's company and their winding, indulgent shop talks. He'd missed his warm, rumbling laugh, and datapad loaded with ancient schematics. He was a pleasant distraction, and almost felt like a friend.

"I _am_ your friend," the old man said, so easily, like it was nothing, when Anakin made the comment off hand one afternoon.

A thick swell of fondness blocked his throat, and had to swallow several times before muttering _good to know_.

When they weren't working on his new limb-- and later attaching it-- the two made minor repairs to Del's shuttle, or busied themselves by keeping camp in order. They made tea and prepped meals, gathered wood for a nightly fire, and even made an effort to start organizing the loot in his and Obi-Wan's cargo hold. 

They didn't touch the braids or clothes stolen off Padawans. This wasn't the place, Del insisted. They needed a funeral, but it should be at a Temple. Even one that'd been totally sacked would still have the settings for a funeral pyre. None of that was worth stealing; it was bulky, usually charred, and made of plain, unattractive material. Whenever they finally made their way to one, they could lay the Padawans to rest. Until then, it was better to let them be.

The rest of it they did their best to clean and properly store, a task that Obi-Wan occasionally joined them in. Whenever he wasn't watching the holotransmitter, meditating, or wandering the island, he usually passed the time with Del and Anakin. He didn't contribute much when they were at the bench or repairing Del's ship-- he was as hopeless of a mechanic as he’d ever been. He was a good set of extra hands for washing and polishing though, and cradled every artefact he was passed with the gentlest reverence.

Anakin tried to match it, but his hands felt slick and clumsy whenever he handled the loot. It still hummed with residual violence, some pieces louder than others, which made it difficult to concentrate on his work. He did his best though, not giving in to the urge to make an excuse and abandon it. Some of the stains and scorches were directly his fault; the least he could do now was try to clean them up.

Lars never joined them in the cargo hold. He spent most of his days gathering food for them instead. He caught sink-crabs, harvested sea vegetables, and occasionally caught fish, all which cooked up frangrantly over the fire. It was like being back at the Temple. Everyone had jobs, and no minded doing them. The only one that wasn't contributing actively was Prim. 

Not that Anakin minded. He didn't want to be stuck in a room with her, feeling her glare cutting through his back. She’d just be a distraction, and it was nice to not have to worry about what she’d say or do if they were alone. The most he ever saw her for was a few minutes at dinner, when she scarfed down food before slinking off again. She haunted camp, and if she spent time with anyone, it was Obi-Wan.

Anakin didn't envy either of them. That reunion wasn't going well.

* * *

"She's impossible," Obi-Wan spat as he stalked up their ship's boarding ramp.

Anakin hummed, but didn't look up from his datapad. Del had let him borrow it, given him the authentications for his personal files, and said that he could make modifications to any design he wanted. They were vanity projects, and most of them years old without even a prototype. With Anakin's mod done, though, they were both itching for something new to do. If he liked Anakin's changes, there was a chance Del might greenlight a build.

At the head of the ramp, the older man started pacing. His steps were short, and it sounded like he was walking tight circles. His signature felt fried, and the younger man could almost smell his agitation.

It probably had something to do with him and Prim shouting at each other on the beach.

They’d been doing that a lot the past week. The two had met up every day since Nema’s interrogation, presumably to work out conflict. As far as that went, though, the exercise had been a failure. The conversation always broke down within a few minutes. Whatever Obi-Wan was offering, Prim wasn’t buying. She was still keyed up from Onderon, and likely felt outnumbered. It was making her defensive, and that had her claws out.

“Infuriating,” the older man snipped under his breath. When Anakin finally looked up, he saw Obi-Wan glaring down the ramp. His hands were fisted on his hips, feet planted squarely, nose snarled up. “Childish, antagonistic--”

“Want me to act surprised?”

The older man’s attention snapped to the booth he was sitting in. Anakin smirked, which only spiked his irritation. It didn’t bubble over, though. The older man had regained some composure.

“Seriously,” Anakin continued. “What’d you expect?” He looked back down at his datapad long enough to lock the screen. After it went black, he pushed it to the far side of the table, giving Obi-Wan his full attention. “You know what she’s like. You can’t just scream at her for an hour and expect--”

“You heard that?”

Anakin quirked a brow, wondering if the other was joking. The mortified expression that took over his face suggested he wasn’t. Had the other honestly not realized how heated they were getting?

“People on Coruscant heard that, Obi.”

A dusty pink bloomed over the older man’s cheeks and nose, deepening the burn set in his skin. His face was a mess of freckles and splotchy sun damage. It made him look younger, and so did his embarrassed frown. 

Sighing, Obi-Wan let his hands drop off his hips. One came up to shove the bangs out of his eyes. When his hair was out of the way, he pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I'm sorry.” He grimaced. “I know I shouldn't, but she's--"

The other trailed off, deciding it didn't matter, then made his way deeper into the shuttle. He stepped out of the light funneling up the ramp and came to the booth Anakin was lounging in. He gestured to the empty side, asking for permission to join him. When Anakin nodded, Obi-Wan fell into it heavily.

"I don't understand her," he grumbled. "I don't want to fight. I'm only trying to help her see reason, but she's so unstable. Have you felt it?"

Anakin nodded. He would've had to have been Force blind not to. The Togruta radiated imbalance. Her anxiety leaked, making a wide radius of sickly yellow that deepened to an angry, injured blue at her core. She was a bruise, and gave off a smell like melting plastic.

"I can't get through to her," Obi-Wan continued. "Regardless of what I say, she only sees it as an attack. It's as if she doesn't _want_ to reconcile herself."

Anakin shrugged. "It's hard to when you're feeling that way."

Obi-Wan's brow furrowed as he considered the man across from him. After a moment, he leaned forward in his seat. He braced his elbows on the table and leaned in a little.

"Are you defending her?"

He sounded curious rather than upset. Anakin still scoffed. Of course he wasn't. He didn't like Prim. He didn't even feel sorry for her, but he recognized the bad set of her energy, and knew how it felt to be dragged along by something so strong.

"All I'm saying," Anakin corrected, "is that your infinite charity--" He drawled the words, making Obi-Wan bristle. "-- has a way of coming off patronizing when someone's already on the defensive."

"What would you have me do, then?"

"Stop trying to coddle her. She obviously doesn't want it."

For a second, Obi-Wan looked like he was going to take the advice seriously. He changed his mind, however, and shook his head.

"She doesn't know what she wants."

Anakin barked a laugh. _Right on time._

"There it is," he said. "Patronizing."

The color in Obi-Wan's cheeks brightened. Had he always blushed so much? Anakin didn't think so. Flustering his old master used to be tough. Obi-Wan was cool under fire, and typically had a few comebacks loaded. The last week or so though, he hadn't even made Anakin work for it.

"This is serious," Obi-Wan huffed, badly deflecting the blow. "I don't know how soon Bail will comm back, and if this isn't resolved when he does--" The other sighed, pinching his nose again. "I honestly don't know what we'll do with her."

Anakin rolled his eyes. He knew that wasn't true. He didn't doubt for a second that if Prim continued to be a problem, the older man would grit his teeth and force them all to navigate through it. He'd already said he had no intention of giving the Togruta up. If necessary, he'd drag her off Bestine kicking and screaming. It was more or less what he'd done with Anakin, after all.

It was obvious the older man didn't want to have to do that, though. Prim's stubbornness was starting to wear him out. Under his sunburn and blush, he looked cut to the bone.

Before he could change his mind, Anakin made an offer.

"Let me try," he said, already regretting it. When Obi-Wan just stared, he clarified. "Let me talk to her."

The older man laughed before realizing Anakin was serious.

"What good would that do? She doesn't like you."

That was fine. The feeling was mutual. "Liking you hasn't made a difference."

Obi-Wan pursed his lips, unable to argue the point. 

"Trust me," he said, before the other could think of another reason to refuse. "I'll play nice."

Obi-Wan hummed, not sounding convinced. "If I said no?"

Anakin pretended to mull it over. 

"I'd do it anyway."

The other sighed. "Why even bother asking, then?" 

He leaned back in his seat, narrowing his eyes on Anakin. They tracked over his face, searching for something out of place. Seconds later, Anakin felt the other probing through their bond. A thick pressure parted the outer folds his thoughts, gently burrowing for-- what? Some plans for a trick? It was almost insulting that Obi-Wan thought he'd be that sloppy; as if Anakin hadn't had over a decade of practice concealing offenses.

"Fine," Obi-Wan relented after a moment. "Wait until tomorrow, though. Please. She's in a froth."

Anakin snorted. "Who's fault is that?"

Obi-Wan flushed again, and it was probably only _his_ decade of practice that kept him from kicking Anakin under the table.

When Prim saw him coming down the beach the next morning, her shoulders squared and her energy sucked in tight. The wide, frantic swirl collapsed inward like a star, and her focus honed down to a vibroblade’s edge. When he was close enough-- which took a while, because he slowed his pace in response to the shift-- her eyes cut to his waist, scanning for a saber. Performing a scan of his own, and realized hers wasn’t clipped. Del must’ve confiscated it after the disaster on Onderon.

“I don’t have one either,” he called over the surf.

He stopped with six feet of sand still between them. Prim tensed but didn’t step back, which Anakin appreciated. The closer they were, the easier this conversation would be.

Allowing her to track the motion, he reached down to lift his tunic. He hiked it over the waistline of his pants, showing his empty belt. Some of her tension slacked, but she still didn’t look convinced.

“You have _that_.”

She jerked her chin towards his left arm: its new, more conductive plating and thick disruptor band below the elbow. Nothing immediately identified it as a weapon; even the activation switch was hidden. She must’ve been spying when he and Del tested it out.

His mouth twitched down at the thought of her eyeing him from behind the dunes, but he forced himself to swallow the unease. He dropped his tunic and smoothed the wrinkles out before shooting back.

“And you’ve got teeth sharp enough to tear my throat out, but I was hoping we could do this without making a mess.”

Her nose scrunched, making her lips curl back. If it was meant to make him step back, it missed the mark. He held his ground, meeting the Togruta's stare evenly.

"Did Obi-Wan send you?" she asked, and when Anakin shook his head: "What are you doing, then?"

He shrugged. "Thought we could talk."

Like Obi-Wan had the day before, she seemed to at first think he was joking. She gave a few slow blinks, waiting for the act to drop. When it didn't, she barked a vicious laugh. 

"About what, boy?"

He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he took a few steps away from the tideline, looking for a place dry enough not to soak his pants. When he found one, he dropped and crossed his legs, making himself as comfortable as he could on the coarse bed of grit.

"Onderon,” he said after he’d settled. He looked up at Prim, squinting against the light over her head. “Want to tell me what happened?"

Her eyes blew wide. Whatever she'd expected, that hadn't been it. She regained control of her expression quickly, however, and it darkened with suspicion. She didn't sit herself or move any closer. She stayed several feet back, the high, bright sun above making her harder than usual to look directly at.

"I’m surprised you don’t already know." She rolled her shoulders, working out tension. "It wasn't just my mission. Didn’t Del debrief you?"

"I'm not asking about the mission," Anakin said. "I want to know what happened with you."

Her lekku twitched and her grim set mouth turned further down. She didn't speak though. She didn’t seem to like the question. Sighing, Anakin leaned back to brace his hands in the sand. He balanced on them, legs outstretching to cross at the ankles. He let his focus fall from Prim to the sea churning at her back, and tried a more roundabout approach.

"Some beings say when they get like that, they're booted out of their body. They know what's happening, but it's like they're watching someone else do it. Their mind is off in a corner somewhere, totally detached. Once it starts, all they can do is wait for it to end."

His attention cut from the waves to the Togruta again. She was still standing stiffly and eyeing him mistrustfully. Her hands were clenched by her thighs, and one of them had started tapping. She hadn’t interrupted, though, which he took as a good sign.

"That's not what happens to me," he continued, holding her gaze. "I'm more aware and focused than I’ve ever been. Everything goes quiet, and for a few minutes, every doubt I've ever had gets blasted away." He sucked his teeth, trying to call up that empty void of calm. He couldn't, though. It was impossible to replicate. "For once, I know exactly what I have to do. I think I do, anyway. When it's over, I almost always feel different."

There'd been a few exceptions, things he couldn't bring himself to regret despite knowing that a better person would. For the most part, however, what he did in those moments made him sick with shame when he was through.

Prim padded her feet. She looked uncomfortable, and felt worse. Her energy was leaking again. Her initial panic at seeing him approach had banked, and ceding the high ground to her took what was left of it out at the knees. All that was left was her stubborn bassline, stretching back out, eager to crack against something. Anakin wasn't playing into it, though. He didn't care about her enough to argue.

"Your turn," he prompted.

For a second, he thought she was going to make him wait. He wondered how long he'd have to stare out into the ocean. Moments later though, she surprised him by taking several steps forward. She closed their distance before dropping into a crouch, probably to keep from having to yell over the waves.

"A part of me," she began, fingers worrying the edge of her sleeve, "wakes up from a long, uneasy dream. And it's hungry, and angry, and it doesn't want to go back to sleep. Sometimes I wonder if--"

Her eyes fogged, and whatever she was going to say dried up in her mouth. She swallowed the husk, forcing herself to redirect.

"I have a hard time believing you came to swap stories," she said instead. "Why don't you save us both the time and say what you actually want?"

Anakin snorted. Prim was just as unpleasant as he remembered. Not that it mattered. He didn't want to drag it out either.

"You're not an idiot, so I'm sure you already know this, but you need to pull yourself together. Not just because this act isn’t getting you anywhere, but because between you and me? Obi-Wan is getting tired of waiting." 

Anakin sat up straighter, but didn't make to stand. He didn't want to undermine the Togruta's minimal give. He wanted her to listen, which she was already in danger of not doing. There was a nearly even split chance that nothing he said would go through.

"Let me tell you what's going to happen if you don't get out from under this while he’s giving you a chance. You'll get dragged off the island anyway, and your non-compliance will force him to assume you're a threat. You won't get your saber back, and you'll spend however long it takes for you to get over yourself in lockdown." He paused to lick his lips. "Did it look fun when I was doing it?" She shook her head. "Then take my advice, and let him give you an easy way out."

"Easy," she repeated, scoffing the word. "Is that what you think it'll be?" She shook her head. The movement was sharp, mussing the lay of her lekku. "I think you forget that we don't all have his heart on a string."

He balked at that, momentarily losing track of what he wanted to say. Was she accusing him of something? It sounded like it. Well, it didn't matter. He wasn't biting. Unlike Obi-Wan, he wasn't going to play into her game.

"Look," he said, glossing over what he was sure was meant to be a springboard for a fight, "take the advice or don't. It's not my problem, either way."

"So why bother?"

"Because you're upsetting my shipmate." 

Done with the conversation--he'd said everything he came to-- Anakin hopped up to his feet. Prim tensed but stayed crouching, looking up at him oddly as he shook the sand out of his tunic. He didn't return her glance, didn't want to invite any further, potentially volatile interaction. 

He was aware of it, though, and it cut deep into his back even after he was several hundred feet back down the beach.

* * *

Obi-Wan knew that if Anakin _actually_ wanted credit for somehow managing to talk Kuli down from constant hostility, he wouldn’t have waited to bring it up until four days after the fact or saved it for when they were in the sparring ring.

‘Ring’ was perhaps too generous a word. Taking advantage of outgoing tide, they’d set up on the tightly compacted sand low on the beach, and Obi-Wan had marked their agreed-upon perimeter by gouging lines with his hand. They _were_ sparring though, which was as invigorating as it was strange. They hadn’t tested their skills against one another since Mustafar, that hadn’t exactly been friendly.

As far as matches went, the one that day had been slow going. Anakin was still getting used to his new prosthetic and range of motion. Unlike Obi-Wan, he was relying entirely on his Force abilities. The older man had been asked to use his saber. Powered down, of course; it was a competition, not a death match. If it managed to make contact with Anakin at all, the most it’d do was leave a surface burn. Still, that Anakin trusted him to swing a blade was a staggering realization.

 _Don’t read into it,_ the younger man had scoffed before they began, opening the panel on his left arm to activate the current. When it flared to life, it coiled the arm, fingers to elbow, in writhing licks of purple electricity. 

It was impossible not to. Obi-Wan knew that if he’d pulled a blade weeks ago-- even one set to training strength-- Anakin would’ve called on the Force immediately and tossed him across the room. He wouldn’t have watched the saber ignite, carefully studied as it twirled to build momentum, or paced his side of the ring making last minute calculations: factoring in distance, his own reach, and Obi-Wan’s speed.

He also wouldn’t have crooned _don’t go easy on me._

Obi-Wan hadn’t. Once he was certain Anakin wasn’t at such a significant disadvantage that the fight was unfair, he threw all of his concentration into his blocks, parries, and swings, and did his best to recover quickly from Anakin’s Forceful pushes and pulls. All of which, to the older man’s relief, leveled the playing field neatly. 

His former Padawan never had trouble falling into the Force, especially when it came time to fight. Combat was a powerful motivator, and often teased out Anakin’s most elegant tricks. It also, unfortunately for Obi-WAn, had the tendency to make the other swing low. That day was no exception. He was apparently still willing to fight dirty when all he had to work with was his hands.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” the other all but cooed, sidestepping a downswing too quickly for the movement to be natural. 

Anakin spun through the momentum, circling around to Obi-Wan’s back, who turned so sharply himself that his heels bit into the sand. He kept his saber up and ready to block a jab from the other’s electric hand. Unlike his saber, he didn’t think _that_ had strength scaling.

“For?” Obi-Wan asked, attention skipping between Anakin’s crackling left fist and his mechno-arm. It might’ve not been wreathed in current, but the evidence of his previous calls on the Force bloomed out from it. It was outstretched and ready, either to deliver another shove or curl into a crippling fist.

“Doing your job for you. Seems like Prim is getting over herself. Too bad it’s not you that everyone has to thank for that.”

The taunt was sharp and a little disorienting. Obi-Wan’s guard fell, and his opponent immediately took advantage. Coming in low, he jabbed with his electrified arm, long fingers reaching-- but Obi-Wan caught up with himself and managed back out of range. When he realized what’d happened, his nose scrunched in annoyance. Because really, wasn’t that an old trick? Hadn’t he and Anakin both used to jeer at enemies together? He knew better than to get dragged into a chat.

“You’re forgetting,” he called back anyway, because if Anakin could exploit it, so could he, “that I approved your doing so.”

“Who says I need approval?”

“You do. Or don’t you recall asking for it?”

A hot, heady aggression flared through their bond, whiting everything else out for several seconds. Obi-Wan faltered again, momentarily overwhelmed. Not afraid, exactly, but-- 

Before he could decide what exactly it was he felt, Anakin surged forward again. He bashed his arm against Obi-Wan’s blade, knocking it out of defensive position. He slid down the length, locking his wrist near the emitter to keep the saber trapped and out of the way. With his core left unprotected, Obi-Wan’s focus recentered. When he saw the other’s free hand coming up to deliver a blow, he acted first: kicked Anakin in the gut and set him stumbling, gasping for breath as he went.

He gave the other time to gather himself, which Anakin seemed to resent. Even doubled over from the kick, the Force around him swam with arrogance. The air went so thick and prideful that Obi-Wan could almost taste it.

“Careful,” he said, falling back on old habits. It was a teachable moment, never mind that he wasn’t Anakin’s teacher. “Overconfidence is a distraction. By falling into that trap, you do your opponent’s work for them.”

“Done a lot of your work recently,” Anakin grunted, somehow managing to sound superior even as he struggled to unfold himself. “What’s one more thing?”

Obi-Wan rolled his eyes. “I can see you’re feeling better.”

With that, the older man resumed their fight. Not giving Anakin more time to recover than absolutely necessary-- he might’ve wanted to be fair, but Obi-Wan still wanted to win-- he closed their distance, swinging for Anakin’s open belly. It was an aggressive move, and one he normally wouldn’t have tried. Forward attacks were more his former Padawan’s style. Obi-Wan preferred a tight defense, but given Anakin’s lack of a ranged weapon, he’d opted several times throughout the session to break form. 

That it wasn’t his strong suit was obvious. Anakin preempted the attack and knocked it wildly off course without much effort. He didn’t even dodge, instead choosing to firmly plant his feet and strike the incoming blade with the back of his arm. Using the limb like a short sword, he threw the beam aside and sent Obi-Wan stumbling along with it. Seizing the opening, Anakin leveled a push to further offset his balance, and seconds later Obi-Wan found himself on his back. 

He didn’t stay there long. Seeing Anakin moving in, he kicked out and knocked the younger man over himself. With him on the ground, Obi-Wan rolled upright and came to straddle him, pinning his left arm to the sand with the saber. He trapped the other under one knee, letting most of his weight settle on the wrist. 

If the arm was flesh, Anakin would’ve been gritting his teeth. Obi-Wan had trapped dozens of beings like that before, and knew exactly how crushing his weight could be. As it stood, Anakin just glared up at him. 

“Yield,” the older man said, not bothered by the look. He had the advantage, and his opponent was trapped. He could pout all he wanted; he’d lost the fight. 

At least, Obi-Wan had thought so.

What he hadn’t factored in-- a Padawan’s mistake, he’d think later-- was Anakin’s unpinned hips, and how willing the younger man might be to trade a few seconds of pain for the opportunity to gloat. 

In a move that had to have torn at the tight skin of his lower back, Anakin bucked, sending the man above him toppling. Obi-Wan lost his grip on his saber, which Anakin knocked out of range quickly, and went sprawling for the second time onto his back. Unlike before, though, he didn’t have time to scramble back up. Anakin followed him, rolling on top to trap his old master. His right hand wrapped around Obi-Wan’s throat, and his left, still sizzling with current, came to hover centimeters over Obi-Wan’s chest. 

He didn’t bother with the older man’s hands. He didn’t have to. If Obi-Wan so much as twitched, Anakin could dispatch him with a nudge to the chest. To be safe, though, his former Padawan _did_ make sure he couldn’t be unseated. Instead of hovering, he sat full on Obi-Wan’s belly.

“What was that about overconfidence?” Anakin asked, mouth curling into a horridly smug grin. 

His self-assurance and mended pride made a golden halo of his signature. His energy was heavy, hot, and solid, or maybe his weight was. Whichever it happened to be, it was distracting. Obi-Wan couldn’t properly focus on the weapon over his heart. Above him, Anakin was a beacon of spent thrill. There was an afterglow all about him that felt out of place, and it made Obi-Wan painfully aware of how much they were touching. Or rather, how much Anakin was touching him.

“It’s not the demonstration I intended,” Obi-Wan said, trying to work through the awareness. It was sticky warm, and he had to swallow a lump building in his throat. When he did, he felt it work against Anakin’s palm. “But I suppose it made the point.”

Anakin hummed and, without seeming to notice, stroked his thumb over a patch of Obi-Wan’s neck. It was a short, mindless gesture, and in its wake Obi-Wan felt a vague sort of _want_ leach the last of his strength. Seemingly deciding to cede to the fight on its own, his body went limp under the other. Anakin felt it, and in response let off the faintest bit of pressure.

“Yield.”

It wasn’t a question. It hadn’t been when Obi-Wan said it either, but Anakin’s voice seemed to carry more weight. It was slung low and honeyed, fatigue starting to catch up with him, but still hummed faintly with menace. Like he wouldn’t have minded if Obi-Wan refused and tried to resume the fight. The older man didn’t though; he wasn’t an idiot. Engaging further would just be letting the other play with his food.

“I give,” he said, though the formal relent came out breathy. His attention was still split by the idle brushing along his throat, which by then was starting to heat with an unbidden blush. He felt the color building, and it was just as embarrassing as the timid skitter of his voice.

Anakin’s thumb stilled, as though he were suddenly aware of it. His hand stayed in place for several seconds, not pulling back. It was a heavy pause, and in it the other looked down at him with an expression Obi-Wan couldn’t place. An itch built on his skin under it, ticking up when the other’s eyes lit with-- suggestion? Knowing? Some sort of satisfied suspicion? 

Whatever it was, it faded when the other pulled away, and Obi-Wan spent the rest of the afternoon trying not to think about it.

* * *

The last thing Bail wanted after spending two and half weeks on Coruscant was to lock up in his office and do more work. He was tired, annoyed, and would’ve rather been in the nursery watching his children bounce and coo at Breha. How long he'd been off-world, though, meant that his personal comm was likely overflowing with correspondences. When he'd left for the Senate session, he already knew he'd be coming home to a slew of requests.

Unfortunately, that meant skipping his first homeworld dinner and only seeing Breha long enough to peck her cheek. She was disappointed, of course, but as gracious as ever. Being a public figure herself, she understood the demands. After returning his kiss and promising to have one of their staff bring him caf, she let him go. While he almost would've preferred that she didn't, he appreciated her commitment to his career. Promising to come to bed eventually, he reluctantly left her in her receiving room.

An hour after returning to the palace, Bail found himself falling heavily into his office chair. The room around him was softly lit, all the lights down to half power. He didn't really need them. The holotransmitter made its own glow, and what he needed was on it anyway. 

In front of it, with a steaming mug of caf held to his chest, the senator began playing back his missed messages. Most of them were standard: requests from fellow senators and other officials, updates on projects he was managing on Alderaan, and return calls from partners throughout the Core. None of it was particularly urgent, though he was glad to hear from his anti-Imperial contact at Sanctuary Coast. He paused the playback just before that missive ended and made a note in his datapad to call them back in the morning. 

After it restarted, there were only two messages left, and both of those decidedly more pressing than the ones before. The first was from Aadila Wedge, the leader of the small Jedi band who’d come to him for help. She and three she’d been traveling with had made it to Vrogas Vas some days ago, and were currently using the supplies and droids he’d gifted to them to help set up camp at a temple there. In the message, she predicted it’d take a standard month to make the space livable again. She’d stay in contact, she promised, and wouldn’t forget that her group had agreed to help him once they were settled in.

That hadn’t been a condition. Bail was always going to give Aadila and her friends what they needed. Regardless of whether or not they were interested in aligning with his rebel group, he considered it his duty to offer them aid. It was good to know they _were_ interested, though. Having Jedi in their ranks would not only improve their chance of future success, but also help bolster enlistment. Outside of the Emperor’s carefully cultivated circle, what had been done to the Order didn’t sit well. Knowing some members had survived the purge and were willing to take action would no doubt inspire others to get involved. 

On the heels of that came the shortest missive, though brevity didn’t soften the shock. Bail was halfway through a swallow when an image of Obi-Wan resolved, and seeing his friend’s face for the first time in months made him choke. He forced the caf down and dialed the volume up to be sure he heard everything. Whatever the reason for reaching out, he suspected the other man hadn’t done it lightly. Given how they’d parted and who they’d each taken-- well.

 _“My friend,”_ Obi-Wan greeted, and Bail let out a laugh. The man sounded rested and healthy, which was a relief. _“I apologize for how long it’s been, though I trust you understand. My comrades and I have had quite a time of it recently.”_ In the recording, the other paused to flash a smile. Even through the draining blue feed, it oozed real warmth. _“I’ll explain everything if you comm back. We have some catching up to do. I’ll leave my code at the end of this message. Give Breha my love._ ”

He rattled off a string of numbers that Bail scrambled to copy down. After he’d finished, he played the message back to be sure he hadn’t skipped one. When the code read back correctly, he shut off his transmitter and sat in silence, one hand clenched around his cup as he considered.

‘Catching up’, Obi-Wan had said. He wondered what that meant, and what had happened. Wondered who exactly his _comrades_ were, and if Skywalker was still among them. The damned fool had been close to death the last time Bail saw him; could he have survived? If he had, how was his mind? There hadn’t been much time to discuss particulars after Padme’s death, but from what Bail did know, Anakin had lost all sense. Bail had trouble understanding why Obi-Wan had bothered to save him at all.

He’d wished Obi-Wan the best, and he’d meant it. His friend looked shattered, squeezing Padme’s cooling hand like his grip could wake her up. Obi-Wan had lost enough, and anger at Skywalker aside, Bail found himself hoping the bastard would pull through. He’d be lying if he said he’d thought it likely, though. The boy was mutilated, splattered with burns, and already half-dead. What had become of him the last few months, and how did it sit with Obi-Wan?

His friend was right. They had quite a bit of catching up to do.


	13. Rendezvous, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all! Hope you enjoy the new chapter :) As always, let me know what you think.

Decades of both teaching at the Academy and providing emergency medical care had given Del Trico a talent. Though he wasn't always the best immediate judge of character, he was an excellent reader of the room.

It was a necessary skill when dealing with learners. Children in general left the most important things unsaid. The same turned out to be true for most of the beings he performed field surgeries on; they were either too in shock or didn't know enough Basic to tell him what he needed. 

In either case, it was necessary to rely on external tells: how beings interacted, who grouped together, how the Force moved around them; what sort of presence each being had, what their signatures felt and looked like. More often than not, facial expressions and emotional pulses were the only answers Del got. In this way, students and half dead amputees were exceptionally alike. They were endpoints on a spectrum that Anakin and Obi-Wan were also a part of.

Del hadn't decided which end the men fell closest to yet.

For the fifth time that week, the old Jedi sat on the extended boarding ramp of his shuttle and watched. The two younger men were ahead of him on the beach, no longer sparring. They’d finished their cool down, and were now trying a joint meditation. It should've been easy. Del knew for a fact that they'd done it before. As master and apprentice, it would've been a standard exercise. That day, though, it wasn’t going well.

At least, it wasn’t by temple standards. In comparison to how it would've gone months ago, however, it was impressive. That they were able to kneel together and open their minds to facilitate trance share spoke of a trust that’d been missing before. On Coruscant, Anakin’s mind had been a tightly clamped shell, all his expressions and thoughts heavily guarded. Now, Del could feel his awareness bleeding freely to curl up and twist with Obi-Wan’s. It was an intimate, vulnerable act that made the Force around them both tremble. Their joint swirl of emotions and thoughts created a mass that hung overhead like a stormcloud moments from breaking. It was smoky, thick, and hot, and pulsing with strength.

Del couldn’t penetrate it. He didn’t share their bond, nor had he been invited to kneel with them. The moment was private, which was fine. He didn’t feel the need to intrude, and was content to watch them work from where he sat. The distance lent perspective, which he could’ve guessed the poor boys lacked even without seeing how awkwardly they handled each other.

Imagining he was back at the temple observing students, Del crossed his ankles and leaned comfortably against the hull. He brought up his mug and sipped his tea, narrowing his focus on the pair through the veil of steam. He took in their form: their rod-straight backs and closed legs, close enough that their kneecaps almost kissed. It was standard; good, even, down to their closed eyes careful weave of their hands in their laps. Good form wasn’t anything, though, if they couldn’t focus. 

_That_ seemed to be the problem. Their bodies were fine, but their minds, for whatever reason, refused to sink. That could’ve had something to do with being keyed up from sparring. Del was inclined to think otherwise, though. They’d done a proper cool down, and prior to opening to each other’s minds, neither man had felt half as wound tight. No, Del thought. This was something else, something specific that he didn’t have access to from an outside vantage.

Not that he needed to know. It wasn’t really his business, any more than it was his business how and why their relationship had improved. It clearly had, or else they wouldn’t have been so cordial the last few weeks. And they had been cordial; surprisingly so. Del had seen it. The two could speak more in a single afternoon than they had in months on Coruscant, sit together at meals and the fire, pass each other water and tools, even spar. 

They couldn’t share a trance, apparently, but some things were bound to take more time.

He took another sip of tea before catching the mug between his thighs. Situating it took his attention away from the men for a moment. When he looked back up at them, he could see Anakin’s mouth moving. His eyes were still closed, and so were Obi-Wan’s, and both maintained their prayer position, but the younger man seemed to be asking something. The words came slowly, and in response to them Obi-Wan's brow pinched. He shifted his weight, muttered back, then reached out both hands. He extended them palm up, and when Anakin sensed the shift, he reached out to skim carefully down Obi-Wan's splayed fingers.

His old master’s shoulders tensed, all his energy flooding dark. It reminded Del of how his fair cheeks popped with blush. If it was discomfort he felt, though, Obi-Wan endured it. He kept still, letting Anakin drag his own hands down them. The other moved delicately, bare metal barely brushing skin as he traced to the roots of Obi-Wan's fingers, down his palms, to the sturdy bones of his wrists. When he reached the forearms, Anakin gripped, effectively closing their circuit. Del recognized the pose-- a meditation aid. 

It was helpful for students, or those who'd never gotten comfortable meditating with a partner. It was meant to give both minds a single path to run, a solid, physical thing on which to jointly focus their efforts. A year ago, the two probably wouldn't have needed it. Del had heard stories of their illustrious partnership; not just from Obi-Wan, but from other, admittedly envious masters. At one point in their history, Anakin and Obi-Wan were so perfectly in sync that the idea of having to rely on such a technique probably would’ve been laughable. Just then, however, Obi-Wan didn't seem opposed. After a few seconds' delay, he returned the touch. 

He took hold of Anakin’s arms, wrapping his fingers tight just below the bend of each elbow. The younger man muttered something else, and Obi-Wan's signature bursted with pink.

Not for the first time, Del wished he had better hearing.

* * *

It wasn't a great time for a realization. In Anakin's opinion, very few times actually were. This one specifically, though, was more compromising than he'd have liked. He would've preferred having the thought when his mind wasn't flayed.

_Flayed_ might've been too strong a word. He'd opened it willingly and Obi-Wan wasn't being abusive. The other man’s presence was unignorable, and thick enough to make Anakin’s skull feel like it was splitting if he moved too quickly. Obi-Wan rarely did that, though. He was careful with his power, and the occasion slip was forgivable. Besides, Anakin knew his own intrusion felt the same.

They were being sloppy. He knew that too. If another master was watching, they'd tell the pair of them to give it up. Their nerves were so shot that even linking bodily hadn't helped. This was obviously nothing more than a waste of time. By now, they should've been deep in a trance together. Before his coma, before Mustafar, they would've been. Anakin felt responsible, and his embarrassment for the fact annoyed him almost as much as his current incompetence. 

If Obi-Wan personally blamed him, it didn't show. He could feel the other's frustration, but it was unfocused. It ran haphazardly through their bond, which felt blasted open by an ion cannon. It had no target though, or if it did, the target wasn't him.

It was strange, not being the focal of Obi-Wan's frustration. Anakin felt like he had been since he was a boy. He was never the Padawan he should've been-- never as deferential or studious. He wasn't like Obi-Wan, and the tension it created was often palpable. His old master didn't always know how to respond to him, or how to get the response he himself wanted. Their partnership was rife with misunderstanding, though that ultimately hadn't kept them from growing close.

"Should we stop?" Anakin asked after what must’ve been forty five minutes. 

His lower back was starting to ache from the formal pose. Not so badly that he thought he'd have trouble walking later, but enough that he wouldn’t complain if Obi-Wan wanted to quit.

"No," Obi-Wan said, breaking up the hope. "We haven’t been at it long. Be patient, please."

Anakin sighed. He probably should've expected that. Obi-Wan didn't like giving up. Not on himself, or others, or anything, no matter how trivial it was. When he was a child, Anakin thought that made his master heroic. Now, he just thought it made him stubborn. Whatever Obi-Wan was hoping to get out of the exercise, it couldn’t be working. The other just felt frustrated and raw. 

Annoyance speared their bond. Obi-Wan couldn't find his center, and it was upsetting him. Anakin could understand; his old master never had trouble with this before. Even bone tired and wrecked from battle, even with Anakin’s electric buzz distracting him, Obi-Wan could always manage to drag them both down. So, what was stopping him now? 

Against his better judgement, Anakin decided to dig. He exhaled, stretching thinner through their bond. His breath carried him out, feeding him through Obi-Wan’s tight weave, and he focused on separating their thoughts and feelings. It wasn't difficult. His own emotions had a different weight. Even at their densest, Obi-Wan's felt pillowy by comparison. His control made them airy and easy to banish.

Having identified what of the racket was coming from the other, Anakin surrounded each distraction and picked it apart: thirst, his rumbling stomach, midday exhaustion, the smell of the beach, grit under his knees. All of it bounded around noisily Obi-Wan's head, muddying his clarity. 

No, that wasn't right. Those were the symptoms. They were secondary. He couldn't focus because he was frustrated, and that was _coming_ from something. What, though? It felt like a dozen layers were between him and the answer.

Anakin pressed into a particularly tender spot. He felt the other’s mind give, parting like flesh. It shuddered open obligingly instead of clenching to keep him out and Obi-Wan gasped, mind whiting out at the sensation. His grip must’ve tightened, because Anakin became aware of a dull pressure through the sensors of his right arm. Without opening his eyes, he could sense the older had gone rigid. His presence brittled dangerously in the Force.

"Easy," he said, voice gruff from the heat. He stilled his descent but didn’t retreat. "I'm not going to hurt you."

It felt important to say. He knew how helpless it made a being feel to be probed. With his hooks so deep in his old master’s mind, it wouldn’t take much effort to do critical damage, a fact that Obi-Wan was certainly aware of. The other didn't try to boot him out, though. He took a few breaths instead. Some of the pressure between them slacked, which Anakin rewarded with a flood of warm reassurance. Obi-Wan sighed, relieved by the careful treatment, and his grip on Anakin’s arms relaxed fractionally.

It didn't bring Anakin closer to an answer, but maybe the particulars didn't matter. Obi-Wan could keep his secrets; they didn't make much difference, especially if this tactic worked. Shifting gears, Anakin recentered his priority from snooping to alleviating enough anxiety for Obi-Wan to focus. If he could do that, maybe his old master could get enough footing to sink them both into a few minutes’ long trance, then they could be done. Anakin could think of a dozen less awkward things he'd rather be doing-- working on Del’s ship, redrawing schematics, even collecting firewood-- but he couldn’t do any of them until his magisterial friend was satisfied. So, he devoted all of his attention to smoothing out surface disturbances.

Sending out pulses of insistent calm, he swaddled Obi-Wan's thoughts and worked them down. He lapped and prodded each like an overworked muscle, willing soreness and distraction away. They broke up, and as they did, he felt the other go lax. More of Obi-Wan's mind bloomed open for him to sink into. Anakin took advantage, bottoming out somewhere foreign and swirling with half formed thoughts he couldn't properly catch onto. It was a deep recess he’d never been allowed to see before; somewhere thoughts and impulses either began or went to die. 

Most of it was nonsense, gone almost before Anakin could identify it. Flashes of sensory intake, blips of dreams, a handful of places and people the smell of the ocean reminded him of, then… something else. A few somethings, actually. A series of stray thoughts about tan skin and a thick, bare chest, sun bleached hair and burns and metal and sweat and--

Anakin swallowed thickly and backed out of the pocket, opting to pretend he hadn't seen that.

He’d done that a lot recently: pretended he hadn’t seen something. At first, back on Thyferra, he thought he misinterpreted. He had to have, he told himself, because it was _Obi-Wan_ , and Obi-Wan didn't feel things like that. Anakin knew about Satine, but that was different. Isolated. Obi-Wan was cool, composed, and compartmental. Anakin couldn't ever imagine him burning.

But apparently he did, or at least had a bed of embers. Anakin felt them flare in that dingy control room. Knelt between his legs, Anakin had almost been knocked back by the familiar smoky curl of _want_. It blackened the air between them, giving off a panicked animal stink that made his own pulse jump in sympathy.

After getting his bearings enough to pull away, he’d convinced himself that he hadn’t read right. Or if he had, that the feeling was accidental: some wire got crossed, and Obi-Wan couldn't be held accountable. It was a compromising position, after all, and they were pressed close, and Obi-Wan trusted him. The vulnerability must’ve confused him. That's all there was to it.

That didn't hold up though, because the event wasn’t isolated. It kept happening. Some of the older man’s control lost its toehold, and barely two weeks after the initial flare, Anakin was running out of excuses to make for him.

"This isn’t going to work," he sighed.

“Certainly not with that mindset.”

“Or yours,” Anakin shot back. The words were cut with irritation, which he regretted when he Obi-Wan flinched. "We need to relax," he said more calmly. "Let me--" 

He trailed off, unsure of what he was asking permission for. Refusing to pick it apart, he recommitted to his earlier task. All he needed to do was create enough peace to cover a shallow meditation. After that, they could both get up. 

Breathing deeply, he swaddled every sore spot he could find, letting waves of his power roll over them. Obi-Wan responded eagerly, allowing himself to be soothed like a Padawan. One thread refused to snap though, no matter what Anakin did. A thin, tight cord of tension remained; remembering the embarrassing glimpse he'd gotten minutes before, Anakin thought he could guess why.

"If touching is making it harder," he began.

"No," the other interrupted, tightening his grip to make a point. "It's fine. This just isn't my best work, I'm afraid."

Anakin didn't have to ask why. He'd had two weeks to figure it out, and Obi-Wan hadn't made it difficult. The same wanting, skittish shame he'd scented on Thyferra came spilling out from the other almost once a day. When they were sparring or when Anakin came out of the 'fresher to ask for help slathering on nerve cream, it pawed between them curiously. It peeled out from Obi-Wan's hands, which shook despite usually being so steady. The older man was getting nervous, and likely running out of unrelated things to blame the feeling on himself. Obi-Wan _wanted_ something, and it was strange and a little disarming. 

Anakin didn't have a clue what to do with it.

It wasn't that he'd never considered it, he allowed himself to think later that afternoon. They managed to get a few minutes of meditation done, though when it was over neither of them felt restful. Sticky from the heat, they'd gone their separate ways: Obi-Wan to their shuttle for a wash, and Anakin to the crew hold of Del's ship, where the old man was reading and obligingly letting him think.

From maybe fifteen up until the time he'd gotten seriously involved with Padme, Anakin had entertained fantasies. Nothing too blue; he didn't want to risk Obi-Wan scenting them through their bond and feeling betrayed. They'd been boyish wants: gentler touches in the showers they shared when one of them was too injured to wash alone, or pressing closer in their travel cot. When he was feeling brave, he'd sometimes even think of them kissing. He tried to imagine the scratch of Obi-Wan's beard or how his master’s hands would feel tangled up in his hair. Alone in bed, he'd gnaw his lips until they bruised and stroke himself, pitifully hard from pretending it was Obi-Wan biting him. 

They were safe, well worn fantasies, but nothing more than that. He hadn’t even indulged in one in years. Anakin never seriously thought something would happen between them. Even if the other wasn't his master, Obi-Wan was untouchable. He didn't ache like Anakin or lose control of his pulse. His blood didn't thunder so violently that it made his tongue throb. He was clear and centered, and as far as Anakin knew, celibate. He certainly reminded _Anakin_ of that aspect of their vows often enough.

“You’re troubled,” Del said, pulling Anakin out of the thought.

The younger man looked up from where he’d been staring at the table. He saw Del watching him over his datapad and was grateful, not for the first time, that the other couldn’t read his mind. 

“No,” he lied, straightening in his seat. “Just tired. Obi-Wan had me up early this morning.”

The old man hummed, and Anakin knew by the sound that Del didn’t believe it. As usual, though, he didn’t call him on it outright. He circled the topic instead.

“Speaking of Obi-Wan.” He locked his datapad. “You two seem to be getting along better.”

“Better than when? On Coruscant?” Anakin forced a laugh to downplay it. “That’s a low standard. I wanted to tear his throat out.”

It felt dangerous to admit, like Del might pocket the information to take back to Obi-Wan and-- what? Coruscant was months ago, and the other wasn’t wrong. They were getting along much better now. It probably didn’t matter, and it was true, in any case. He remembered how hot his hate burned, how dizzy it made him to feel his body buzz with a want for violence while they were trapped in that ghetto. 

Del hummed again, bracing an elbow on the table. He propped his chin on his knuckles, the lean making his gray locs fall over his chest.

“I disagree,” he said. “And I think Obi-Wan would, too. It takes fortitude to allow one’s feelings to change.”

“Thought change was inevitable.”

“It is.” Del shrugged. “But some beings go kicking and screaming anyway.”

Anakin snorted. He _had_ gone kicking and screaming. If he’d been conscious on Mustafar, he wouldn’t have made taking him easy. He would’ve tried to bait the other into abandoning him, would’ve preferred burning alive to whatever he thought Obi-Wan had planned. He’d been furious, hurt, and afraid, and being all those things was always easier when he could drag Obi-Wan down with him.

“Do you think Obi-Wan has changed?”

Del stared at him, chewing the question for so long that Anakin wondered if it was too transparent. If he’d given some old, childish interest away by asking it. If he had, though, Del didn’t let on. The old Jedi wet his lips before shrugging, then gave an answer so general it had to be calculated.

“We all have, and I suspect we’ll continue to. Like you said, change is inevitable.”

* * *

When communication finally came through from Alderaan, Obi-Wan was alone on the shuttle. Anakin had been gone for hours, and Obi-Wan himself was just starting to wake up and wander the ship.

In their kitchenette while standing watch over the kettle, he heard the _ping_ of a caught transmission. It chirped, clear and insistent from the station and he tensed, waiting for the rebound. It came seconds later, the signal feeding back through the closed circuit of the line. Then again, and again, and again, a blipping annoyance. Or it would’ve been, if Obi-Wan wasn’t expecting a call. 

Chest tightening with thrill, he took the kettle off the range and poured the water prematurely. It wasn’t steaming yet, but hot enough to do the job. He could make a better cup of tea later. Answering the call was much more important. He’d waited weeks to hear back from Bail again, and there was no telling when the senator would have another free moment.

Palming the mug, he hurried into the crew hold to take a seat at the tabletop station. After finding his seat, Obi-Wan tapped his acceptance into the console. He keyed in his code, authorized the transmission, and seconds later the feed went live, spitting up a screen of shivering blue light from the holopuck.

There was a slight delay-- some deep space interference, maybe, or just the stress of their long distance. Regardless, it took several more seconds for the light to resolve into a recognizable image. It glitched, over-pixelating and distending as it tried to transmit something usable. When it finally did, a quarter scale image of Bail Organa came into view.

The senator looked so regal that Obi-Wan regretted having not changed out of bed clothes.

Lightyears and perhaps seasons out of sync, Senator Organa was seated at a desk. He sat formally against the highback, hands weaved together in front of him in a show of practiced patience Obi-Wan recognized from senate holos. He wore thick, velvety robes elaborately embroidered across the chest, and at his wrists and collar were etched metal cuffs. His beard and hair were perfectly trimmed, and the careful styling of his brows was highlighted by the sharp angle at which one of them was cocked.

For several seconds, neither man spoke. They stared at each other sharply, Obi-Wan wondering how he’d forgotten how delightful Bail was to look at, and Bail looking like he expected a trap. His attention darted over Obi-Wan’s face and chest, cutting aside frequently to try studying the background. There wasn’t anything to see, however. The booth was tall, and the view of Obi-Wan’s shuttle was shielded by the old, stiff cushions.

“If you’re looking for my captor,” Obi-Wan said finally, trying for a teasing tone. It fell flat. He could hear the tremble of excitement in it, “then I’ll have to disappoint you. I’m still a free man.”

“That’s hardly a disappointment. I would’ve hated to be caught up in some drama about a ransom.”

The words were honeyed and warm, lacking the accusation Obi-Wan had spent the last two weeks dreading. He’d put off getting in touch too long. He knew that, and was prepared for his friend to be furious when they spoke. The last time he and Bail had seen each other was over the cooling body of a dear, mutual friend. The room had smelled like a birthing den and the heaviness of death was settling over it. Obi-Wan had given him children, begged Bail to love them, then disappeared.

It wasn’t fair that the man and his wife had become parents in the wake of such loss. Bail and Breha adored Padme, and her death had surely wounded them. Had they even had time to grieve, busy with the babies as they were? And then, for Obi-Wan to melt into the background for-- how long had it been? Five months? Six? After promising vaguely to _be in touch_. He couldn’t imagine what they thought might’ve happened. It’d been mean, and he expected a little anger.

He didn’t get it. Bail was as composed as ever, and his wary expression had already slacked. He looked relieved, and at the sound of Obi-Wan’s voice had moved forward slightly, breaking his stance to lean into his desk. He balanced his weight on the face of it, hands still politely woven. His eyes had softened, creasing at the corners with the promise of mirth, and a faint smile was tugging at his lips.

“Forgive me,” Obi-Wan said, a little stupidly. Bail’s smiles always made him feel out of his depth. “I’m sure you were worried, and I--”

Bail shook his head. “Already forgotten. I don’t suspect you’ve had much time.”

That wasn’t entirely true. There’d been time on Naboo and during flights. He didn’t mention that, though, didn’t want to test Bail’s patience. If his friend was feeling charitable, Obi-Wan would accept it.

Sighing, he relaxed against the back of the booth. He hadn’t realized how tensely he was sitting until it slacked. His lower back ached with the echo of it, and he reached for his tea, hoping the warmth would help. 

“Did I catch you going to bed?” Bail asked, eyes hopping from the sleeveless undershirt Obi-Wan wore to his mussed hair. “Or maybe just getting out of it. Is it morning there?” 

Obi-Wan hummed around a mouthful of tea and set the cup aside. “What is it there? You look like I stole you from court.”

Bail’s smile stretched, and Obi-Wan’s heart clenched. He wished terribly that he was seeing it in person. Senator Organa’s warmth was infectious up close, and Obi-Wan found himself craving it.

“‘Stole’ would imply the Queen doesn’t know where I am. That isn’t the case. She formally excused me a few minutes ago. She’s more interested in a report from you than my opinions on-- oh, what’s the topic today?” He glanced aside to what must’ve been a datapad. “Ah, yes. Crop yield. Fascinating stuff.”

The words dripped apathy, which Obi-Wan could understand. Bail didn’t have a head for such matters. He was a politician, yes, but also a man of action. Sitting through recitations of lengthy reports had never been something the other liked. If it was a debate-- well, that was different. Something told Obi-Wan, however, there was nothing to debate or even really discuss about crop yield.

“You’ll have to give her my thanks.”

Bail waved it off. “You’re doing her a favor. This keeps her from having to suffer through my sighing. Have you ever heard a dozen men discuss optimal fruit and vine shape?” When Obi-Wan shook his head, Bail snorted. “You haven’t missed much, other than perhaps amazement at how they manage to take six hours to all say the same thing.”

Obi-Wan could picture it: Breha in an ornate crown braid and formal gown, glowing on her throne and smiling beatifically, giving each visitor to her court considerate, respectful attention, while her consort barely managed to contain his boredom. Bail probably looked like a child in those moments, unable to use any of his talents, and instead stewing in general distaste as he waited for the affair to be over.

“You’ll be the death of her,” Obi-Wan teased.

“We both will. She’s missed you, you know. She wanted me to say.”

He hummed, thinking of the last time he’d seen Breha. It was months before the last time he’d seen Bail. Obi-Wan had escorted Senator Organa back to Alderaan and the Queen invited him to stay the night. He’d accepted, and the three of them spent the evening eating and drinking by the fire in her private rooms. It’d been lovely and intimate in a way he hadn’t expected. Her unbraided hair tumbled freely down her back, her veil off in what was surely the first time since he’d known her. He didn’t think anyone but her handmaids and husband had ever seen so much of her hair.

He wondered at the time if that meant something, signified some feeling or thought she had. Maybe it did, or maybe it was just that it was late and she didn't want to struggle with taking her hair down after three glasses of Toniray.

"I've missed her as well," Obi-Wan muttered. "Both of you. How are you? And how are the children?"

Bail's smile took on a gentler curve. "They're angels, and Breha couldn't be happier. It's good to see her with them, though I'm off-world more than I'd like. But--" He leaned back in his seat, spreading his large hands. A few of his rings caught light, glinting handsomely. "-- I believe that's what they call _changing the subject_. You have explaining to do. Don’t think you can charm your way out of it.”

It was a friendly tease, and Obi-Wan couldn’t resist rising to it. “Are you saying you find me charming?”

Bail tilted his head back and laughed. “Obviously, but that won't get you out of answering me.” He took his lower lip between his teeth to school his grin, bringing his expression back under control. The humor didn’t fade from his eyes, though. “Come on. Tell me where you’ve been.”

Having no reason or desire to deny the request, Obi-Wan spent the several hours recounting the last few months. Coruscant and their slinking between the two hideouts; Anakin’s waking, slow recovery, and initial feral mood; Kuli’s spirals and how dearly her instability cost them on Onderon, but how she seemed-- perhaps sincerely-- to want to change. He told him of his and Anakin’s missions alone: the flight from Coruscant and the nights they spent on Pijal; the awful discussion of Padme’s death and the children-- _I didn’t name you,_ he swore, which Bail accepted; their time on Naboo, then Thyferra, and finally Bestine, all the while taking care to stress Anakin’s recovery. Obi-Wan was aware of how awful a parting image the younger man had left Bail with, and he didn’t want to do Anakin’s improvements a disservice by not at least trying to assure the senator he’d gotten well.

At least, as well as Obi-Wan thought he could be. Anakin would likely always struggle. It was his nature. He'd also bear the scars of what he’d done for the rest of his life; not only the damage to his body, but to his spirit. He’d caused great harm, and regardless of what he did going forward, he'd have to live with the consequences of that. Obi-Wan had seen flickers of that awareness peaking through already, usually when they and Del were taking care of the artifacts. Anakin looked at the ruined pieces of Temple life like ghosts, and his hands, usually so steady, turned clumsy.

They hadn’t discussed it much. Anakin had never been open with his feelings, even when Obi-Wan prompted by exposing his own. It never quite did the trick. His friend was a tightly clamped shell, and popping him open was a rare treat. In that way, Anakin really hadn’t changed at all. His old master had only managed to get a few stilted replies out of him. Sometimes if he was lucky, he caught Anakin alone in the cargo hold: polishing statues, scrubbing cloth, playing back a holocron. When he did, Obi-Wan could ask-- _What were you thinking? Why couldn’t you trust me?_ \-- and sometimes he got an answer. Sometimes he didn’t.

_You trust him?_ Bail asked when Obi-Wan finished his description of their fight with the Jedi killer.

He sounded skeptical, though admittedly not as much as he might have. Obi-Wan chalked that up to how heavily he'd edited the event. The way he told it, he’d freely given Anakin the sabers, and as for the power play the younger man pulled after-- well, Obi-Wan left that out entirely. He didn’t feel equipped to discuss it.

_I do,_ he answered, lightheaded from admitting it. _He’s wasted too many opportunities to hurt me._

Bail accepted that with a thoughtful nod. He didn’t look entirely convinced, but didn’t argue. He and Obi-Wan both had learned years ago it was better not to. If they couldn’t trust anything else, one another’s judgment was good enough.

When the conversation rounded off, bringing them up to the day of Bail’s call, the senator sank deeper into his chair.

“Well, that explains why our mutual friends were in a hurry,” he said. “I assumed they were being tailed-- most Jedi are-- but I didn’t know how closely.”

“They didn’t say?”

Bail shook his head, and Obi-Wan supposed that wasn’t surprising. Seeking outside help had become dangerous. It was likely the group of four Nema had been tracking had only gone to Alderaan as a last resort. They wouldn’t have wanted to give their host anymore leverage than they already perceived him to have.

“Who were they?” he asked.

“The Nautolans didn’t give their names, but we knew the leader: Aadila Wedge. Her Padawan called himself Milo. Do you recognize them?”

Obi-Wan thought for a moment before shaking his head.

“Well,” Bail continued, “she wasn’t a total stranger. She and Breha met some fifteen years ago. Wedge was instrumental in settling unrest in Crevasse City. She and her group came to collect on an old debt.”

Old, and by the sound of it not very substantial. Alderaan’s internal squabbles were mild and infrequent. Aadila Wedge couldn’t have been much more than a symbol of Jedi backing. Still, it was more footing than she had with anyone else.

“You helped, I assume.”

Bail almost looked offended. 

“Of course. Even if Breha hadn’t known her, I wouldn’t have turned them away. Their rations were gone, their ship was nearly trash, and all four of them looked beaten to the bone. The boy was sick; some kind of infection he picked up at a previous dock. It took my medical staff two days to stabilize and heal him. I thought Wedge would go to pieces if they couldn’t.”

She probably would have. Obi-Wan didn’t know her or her learner, but he understood the bond. More than once he’d sat up praying over Anakin’s sickbed, unsure of what he’d do if his Padawan never got up.

“It’s lucky she knew you,” Obi-Wan said, subverting the ugly memory. “I can’t imagine their group would’ve had as much luck elsewhere.”

“Probably not, considering what they needed ended up amounting to a small fortune.” He raised a hand, ticking off the goods. “Rations, supplies, a new ship, two droids, field and communications tech--”

“Droids?” Obi-Wan frowned. And field tech-- what for? Guessing the question, Bail pressed on.

“Prior to landing, they were en route to Vrogas Vas. There’s an old temple there they wanted to take. Are you familiar?" 

Obi-Wan nodded. He was. It was an historic sight, halfway to ruins by the time he was a Padawan.

"They wanted it for a homebase, of sorts. Somewhere safe to sleep when they or we are in the area. It’s no good to anyone if it isn’t livable, though. On top of what I’m sure is the extensive cleaning and patching it needs, the temple will also require functional security and a communications array. I sent the droids to help with that. It can be tricky work, and they’ll be able to lift more, in any case.”

The explanation _almost_ helped. Obi-Wan understood the need for a hideout somewhere out of the way, and a temple already abandoned before the purge was safer than most. It comforted him to know that then, even at that moment, a group of survivors was doing what he’d barely hoped was possible. He wanted to see it himself, and more importantly, see the Jedi. It didn’t matter that he didn’t know them.

Before he could do that, however--

“We,” he repeated, brows knitting together.

“Come again?”

“That’s what you said: ‘when they or we are in the area’.”

Bail wet his lips. “So I did.”

Obi-Wan waited for an explanation. When one didn’t come, he pressed.

“What do you need from Vrogas Vas? It’s a wasteland. The extant records from the Jedi who served there are bleak at best. It has no native life or resources; everything has to be imported. The beings who immigrate to it do so to die or disappear.”

The senator considered a moment before answering. When he did, he took a roundabout approach. His tone was cool and measured, and Obi-Wan got the sense he was being handled like a dignitary who’d demanded the floor.

"Before I say too much," the other began, "I want to make it clear that I'm not asking you for anything. I told Aadila's people the same; whatever you need, you can have regardless of how you feel about what I'm about to tell you. Do you understand?”

Obi-Wan canted his head. “Bail, what--”

“Humor me, please. I’d hate to think that you thought I was putting you in a difficult position. That isn’t my intention. Do you understand?”

“I suppose,” Obi-Wan said, for lack of anything better. He didn’t understand; not really. He couldn’t guess what Bail might’ve said to the other group to warrant such a warning, or what that had to do with Vrogas Vas.

“Well then, without going into too much detail--” He trailed off, adjusting his seat to scoot in close. Bail was fairly hunched over the puck, and it made Obi-Wan feel conspiratorial. “--which I’m sure you understand. These are dangerous times.” He waited for Obi-Wan to nod before continuing. “What I _can_ say is that friends of ours have been mobilizing. Nothing serious, of course. It’s mostly corralling allies, though we’re hopeful it can be more. I’ve overseen most of it myself, or personally planted the beings doing the overseeing.”

“Overseeing what?” Obi-Wan asked.

“Anti-Imperial coordination.” 

He whispered the words, hissing them through the feed like static. Obi-Wan felt them bolt through his chest, live and hot. His pulse skittered for several seconds before resetting itself. It was what he’d hoped for after hearing from Nema how terribly several worlds were already suffering. He hadn’t thought it’d have enough traction to be considered coordinated, though, or that Bail Organa would somehow be involved.

“How is it,” he managed to ask after reigning his thrill in, “that whenever something’s brewing, it always leads back to you?”

Bail shrugged, affecting indifference. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

Obi-Wan huffed a laugh. "No, of course not." He leaned forward himself, crowding his own holopuck. It brought him nose to nose with Bail’s projection. “You told Wedge’s group?”

“I did, though I’m sorry to say she got more detail.” He made a vague gesture to his holopuck. “I’m fairly certain of security, obviously, but--”

“I know,” Obi-Wan interrupted, sparing him the trouble. “Anakin thinks you’re being monitored. Is it true?”

“It is,” the senator grunted. “There are substantial blind spots, and I’ve had success throwing the Emperor’s agents off so far. Still, it can’t be ignored. I’ve had to modify certain behaviors, and meeting with less than official contacts has gotten tricky.”

“But you’re able to,” Obi-Wan said. “Are any on-world?”

“A few, though most are elsewhere, which heightens the appeal of an out-of-the-way rendezvous. I asked Wedge if she’d be willing to let us dock occasionally, or give sanctuary if someone needed to flee a system. It wasn’t a condition, of course. I was going to help either way, but I’ll admit that I was relieved when she agreed.”

Obi-Wan didn’t doubt that. While Bail’s palace was secure, and there were probably places throughout the Core where his friends could meet, it’d be safer on a dirtball like Vrogas Vas. No one was looking for anyone there.

“They’re involved, then?” he asked. “Wedge and the others. They’re part of your efforts, or have they only signed on to provide temporary shelter?”

“They didn’t make a specific commitment, but they agreed to come back and discuss how they could be helpful when the temple was livable. If everything goes to plan I should be seeing them again in a month, which leaves plenty of time for you.” He leaned back to give Obi-Wan a serious look. “I can contact them as early as this evening if you’d like. I can tell them to expect your team’s arrival, and you could be en route to a sanctuary before the week is out. I’m sure they’d be happy to see you.”

The thought of that was almost overwhelming. It felt like a lifetime since he’d stepped foot in a temple. The sacking of Coruscant’s was still an open wound, and it’d be comforting to see the inside of one again. What was left on Vrogas Vas was a broken relic, but it could be tended and brought back to life. It might even do them good-- all of them, in their own way, to be able to use their hands to build up a home.

Something about that, however, didn’t sit well. Knowing what he did-- that Bail was working under the radar to gain footing against the Empire, and that the survivors they’d been searching for had agreed to help-- Obi-Wan wasn’t sure retiring to be a hermit was possible. How would he feel when the temple was finished and there was nothing left to work on, seeing half their pitiful number fly off while he stayed behind to… what? Mind the relics? Occasionally provide care for docked allies? 

He wanted to see the temple, yes, and return what his ship was carrying to all the rightful places inside of one. As for staying, however, he wasn’t sure what he wanted. Or, for that matter, what the others would want.

“Could I have some time?” he asked. “Before you call them, I mean. I need to discuss this with my team.”

“I understand. I’m on-world for the next two months, so there’s no hurry, whatever you decide. Comm me whenever you like, and for anything.” The senator gave him another warm smile. “Perhaps Breha can join. It’d do her good to see your face.”

A spill of warmth spread through Obi-Wan’s chest as he imagined seeing them both through the feed. Maybe they’d be at a fire, drinking and leaning together heavily, and he could picture himself in the room with them.

“I will,” he assured. “I won’t leave her on pins again. Or you, for that matter. Should I apologize one more time?”

“Apologize by being prompt. I expect to never have to wait so much as a week to hear from you again.”

* * *

"You're not seriously considering this," Prim spat, her mouth a scowl, when Obi-Wan finished his report on the talk with Bail.

Anakin didn't bother dampening his groan. "If he wasn't serious, would we be having this conversation?"

The Togruta didn't answer or even look at him. She kept her eyes trained on Obi-Wan over the fire, very pointedly refusing to look where Anakin sat. 

He growled low in his throat. He hated group meetings.

Beside him in the sand, Obi-Wan shifted. He straightened his back, crossing his legs a little tighter. He met the Togruta's stare, also refusing to acknowledge Anakin. The only one who didn’t ignore him was Del. From the other side of him, Del stretched out his fingers to thump the back of Anakin’s hand. It was either a show of solidarity or meant to be a warning. Anakin wasn’t sure which.

"I haven't said either way what I'm considering," Obi-Wan answered. "I'm only telling you what was told to me. I have an opinion, but was hoping we could discuss all of our options before--"

"What options?" she interrupted. At her side, Lars visibly tensed. Anakin wondered if the man regretted his choice of seating. "Your man gave us their location. The way forward is clear."

"Is it?" Obi-Wan's tone was flat and unimpressed. Anakin recognized it from a dozen arguments they’d had in the past. "You first, then, since you've obviously decided on your vote. What do _you_ think we should do?"

The Togruta's lekku twitched, annoyance showing in the flush that deepened their red pigment. She was ready to argue. The air around her crackled with the promise of it, and by the look on Lars and Del's faces, they felt it too. 

"I think," she began, voice tight through her teeth, "that we should let the senator make the call to Vrogas Vas, tell the others we're coming, then get on with our lives quietly; Organa’s cause of the week be damned."

Obi-Wan didn’t respond for several long moments. He considered Prim’s words, nodding thoughtfully as his jaw worked. The only sounds at camp were the spit of the fire and roaring tide. None of the other men spoke, hardly even daring to exchange glances. All of their attention, even Anakin’s, were glued to Prim: how she frowned, bouncing a little where she crouched. She looked ready to spring at the slightest hint of disagreement.

“You’re not being fair,” the man said eventually. “Bail has been a friend of the Order since entering office.”

“Then I wonder where he was when the purge began.”

Obi-Wan’s end of their bond erupted in static so grating that Anakin grit his teeth. He winced, throwing his shields up to block the blare out. If Obi-Wan noticed, however, he didn’t try to bank it. He was focused, mouth grim set as he schooled himself. Prim was lucky, Anakin thought, that his old master had decided it was more helpful to bite through his tongue than fight with her. He’d heard some of their arguments, and was almost impressed. He’d never managed to get the other man to shout that loud.

"He was caught off guard as much as we were, though I assure you it didn't take him long to regroup. Your not having personally seen it doesn't make it untrue. But that's irrelevant. What we're concerned with is the present.” He folded his arms across his chest. “You've made your feelings clear. I'd like to hear from everyone else now."

The Togruta rolled her eyes.

"To what end? What's the point in pretending that getting involved in a suicide mission is worth it?"

Lars moved beside her again. Anakin watched the man fidget, weighing his options before speaking up.

"Who's to say it's a suicide mission? Senator Organa has plenty of resources and hasn't been caught yet."

"No?" Prim’s attention whipped to the man, and the glassy look she gave shined light on how tentative their truce was. "And you know that for certain?" She shook her head. "Of course you don't. You have no idea what the Emperor's spies are aware of. They could just be letting the senator dig a hole for himself before letting him know they've been watching."

Anakin was willing to concede that that was possible. It was even the kind of play Palpatine would make. Knowing Bail's methods, though, and how often in the past he'd avoided detection, Anakin was less willing to consider it likely. 

Del apparently agreed because the old Jedi spoke up next, deflecting attention from Lars.

"I don't think we should base our decision off of something no one can prove or disprove. We'd be better off coming to an agreement on what we can stand to do morally."

Prim scoffed. "This isn't some theoretical discussion of ethics. We wanted survivors, and we have them. We wanted a temple, and we even have one of those too. Now you're saying you'd rather get involved in a hopeless conflict?"

"How do you know it’s hopeless?" Obi-Wan asked. "We hardly have any of the details."

"That's my point," she hissed, sounding more and more exasperated. "For all we know, your friend is dragging us into a disaster. Aren't you tired of that? Wasn't the war enough?" 

Her dark eyes burned in the glow of the fire. Too restless to keep crouching, she got to her feet. 

"What makes you think," Prim continued, "that there's enough luck left in the galaxy for this to go well? If we sign on to the senator's fight, or coupe, or whatever he's calling it, we'll be killed. There's no other outcome."

A heavy pulse of hurt rolled through their bond, so thick that Anakin felt like he couldn't breathe. It flooded his throat and nose, and he had to force himself to speak through it. Obi-Wan obviously wasn't going to.

"You're afraid," he said, shattering the terse silence. In the wake of his words, the energy at camp cinched tight. He felt Obi-Wan coil like an old, rusted spring. Anakin didn't back down, though. He kept his eyes on Prim.

Across the fire, the Togruta finally looked at him. She glared, face lit menacingly by flame. 

"Why shouldn't I be?" she spat. "Why would anyone want to be back in Palpatine's reach?" She paused, licking her lips, and the Force around her peeled. "Except, maybe, for you."

Something leaden dropped into Anakin's gut. He felt himself scowl and very carefully got to his feet, ignoring the warning hiss from Del.

"If you want to accuse me of something, do it. Don't be shy."

"Anakin--" Obi-Wan tried.

"Stay out of this."

The interruption came quick, and Anakin was surprised to hear Kuli's voice threading through his own. She'd snapped at Obi-Wan too, which only heightened his annoyance. The hand he'd raised for silence curled into a fist.

"I just think it's interesting," she continued, ignoring the threat, "that you can't wait to get back to the Core. If you ask me--" She looked to the others. "--it's a perfect opportunity for our pet to slip the leash. I imagine the Emperor would be willing to forgive quite a few things in exchange for what the boy could tell him now."

Anakin found himself quite suddenly on the other side of the fire, with no real memory of taking the steps to get there. He must've moved quickly though, because Lars had to scramble back to avoid being trampled. Kuli didn't so much as flinch, though. She turned into his approach, squaring her shoulders and letting him come flush with her toes. He glared down at her, hands fisted so tightly he heard gears grinding, and she stared up just as meanly. She was no less intimidating for her size; with teeth bared and gleaming, she looked feral. Anakin took a second to wonder if he'd be able keep her from ripping his throat. She might be too fast, latch onto him like a beast, and he might have to throw her, might have to actually hurt her--

It didn't come to that. 

The others were only a few seconds behind. Lars was first, rolling through the momentum of his dodge and up onto his feet. He grabbed Prim's arms, trying to tug her back by the elbows. It didn't do much good; her footing was solid and she dug her heels in. Obi-Wan did the same, coming to Anakin's back, locking one hand around his wrist and the other on Anakin's shoulder. Del stepped directly between them, forcing them apart with hands to their chests. He put the entire span of his arms between them before speaking.

"What are you going to do?" the old man grunted, voice sharper than Anakin had ever heard it. "Beat each other? Don't embarrass yourselves." He must've felt the frustrated growl building in Anakin's chest, because he thumped it. "You don't get along-- fine, but keep your tempers under control. I don't tolerate cockfights. You understand?"

He looked to Anakin first, and any objection the younger man had wilted under the attention. It wasn't angry, but it was stern and brooked no argument. Anakin could imagine the old Jedi leveling it across a classroom. It made him feel like a Padawan whose squabbling interrupted a lecture, which, he thought, maybe he was. Hadn't he criticized Obi-Wan for taking Prim's bait just last week? And here he was, tripping face first into her trap himself.

It was embarrassing and didn't help bank the very real desire he felt to knock the Togruta across her jaw. He swallowed it, however, and nodded his understanding before lowering his gaze in deference to Del's rank. The old man answered it by softening his touch. The hand digging into his chest stroked up toward his shoulder, cuffing it like he often did to show affection. No real harm done, then, apparently. That took out some of the sting.

"Good man," he muttered before turning to Prim. "And you?"

Kuli's eyes scorched the space between Anakin and Del, burning a path as they bounced between the men. She still looked gunning for a fight, annoyed it'd been interrupted. She didn't argue, though. She wasn't stupid. She gave a tight, begrudging nod and Del shifted, reaching up to cup her neck. He worked a hand under her lekku to squeeze her nape, which she tolerated for a few seconds before tearing free. She wrestled out of Del and Lars' joint grip to stalk away from the fire and down the beach. 

"Let her go," Del said, stopping Lars from giving chase. "A walk will cool her off. We'll finish in the morning."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally going to end Somewhere Else, but it was getting too long! I got carried away :) See y'all next time, and looking forward to y'alls thoughts! I had a lot of fun writing this one!


	14. Temple Ruins, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Here we are at another bridge chapter. Hope y’all enjoy the start of another arc.
> 
> Just so we’re all prepared, I wanted to go ahead and say that this is the second to last arc I have planned. We’re getting closer to the story’s wrapping point, and while I’m not exactly sure on a final chapter count, there probably won’t be more than five or six. I’ll put the actual end chapter number up when I’m more sure, but I wanted to let everyone know :)

Kuli hadn't needed to sit in on the entire second meeting to know how it would go. She'd guessed the night before when she felt the conviction in Obi-Wan like a hardened core of phrik. Though he'd insisted he was only relaying intel, Kuli knew better. She wasn't deaf. She could hear the thrum of excited hope in his tone. He wanted to go to Alderaan, and Obi-Wan always got what he wanted.

Not immediately, maybe, or even without a fight, but the fact remained that Obi-Wan was never denied. It could’ve been luck, or a mind trick, or his pretty face. Whatever the case, it did the trick. Obi-Wan could charm his way out of the grave. Typically, Kuli admired that. It was a trait she’d envied from the first day she met him. 

Today, it just annoyed her.

Scowling, she kicked the water her feet were dangling in. They broke the surface, sloshing the opposite shore of the pond. Beneath the disturbance, sink-crabs brandished their claws in confusion and ire. She could sympathize. She'd been in a foul mood since the night before.

After abandoning the second meeting, she'd disappeared into the heart of the island. She hadn't spent much time in it since Obi-Wan and Skywalker made planetfall. The boy liked it more than the beach, so she'd taken to avoiding it. With him distracted, however, it seemed like a good time to reacquaint herself. She wandered without any real intent for over an hour, stewing in annoyance until she found the shady pond. The cool and quiet of it was enticing, and she planned to spend however long it took to calm down with her feet over the ledge.

 _Might be a while,_ she thought.

The reactionary anger that'd flared the night before might’ve burned out, but she was still frustrated with her team. She'd expected Del and Lars to at least put up a fight and insist as she had that what Obi-Wan wanted was unreasonable. She'd even expected-- childishly-- for Skywalker to agree. He of all beings should know what standing in the Emperor's way resulted in. That their group and a band of four more had survived long enough to learn about each other was a miracle. They didn't need to waste time fighting another person’s war. They needed to find each other and start their lives over.

No. Not over. She didn't think that was really possible. Too much damage had been done to wipe the slate clean. She felt older and more angry than she ever thought possible. It ate at her guts like acid. Most mornings, she woke up covered in slimy sweat from the same nightmare she’d been having for months. She couldn't focus, couldn't meditate, and now couldn't even work out her frustrations with sparring. Del sensed something that made him reluctant to give her saber back.

She tried without it, like she'd seen Obi-Wan and Anakin do. A few days prior, she'd asked Lars to fight her bare fisted. It hadn't gone well. He was slower and too cautious. She'd ended up on top of him, knuckles smashing into his face. 

His cheekbones were still bruised, and the mottling made her feel sick. She hated that she'd actually hurt him. She hated a lot of things: how she felt, what she feared, how she couldn't shake even the palest emotion off now. She felt haunted and unstable. She knew it had to stop. What she didn't know was how to _make_ it stop. She'd been running a dead circuit since her troopers turned on Kashyyyk. Some days were better, but most were worse, and everything she did in anger made her blood feel like it was curdling.

Snarling, she kicked the water again. Her legs sent down a sloshing rain. It splattered her tunic, dripping down her lekku to pool at her collar. It felt good, and she debated about whether or not to just get in. Before she could make up her mind, however, something in the trees behind her shifted. Fallen sticks from the clusters of conifers crunched under boots, and without having to turn, she could guess who it was. She'd recognize the floral, airy swirl of Obi-Wan's signature anywhere.

It curled out of the trees, spilling ahead of him in warning. She tensed, not really sure what to expect. Most of their time alone hadn't gone well recently. She didn't get up, though, or look away from the pool. She doubled down her focus on the angry sink-crabs, opting to let him approach. Whatever he wanted, he was going to do it regardless. 

Obi-Wan Kenobi _always_ got what he wanted.

"I thought I'd find you here," he said, voice soft and placid. "At one of the ponds, at least. They're relaxing, aren't they?"

She didn't answer. That didn't bother him. He seemed to be in a good mood. She could feel it buffering him, all rosy and clean. His presence felt like a dappling spot of light. She wanted to lean back into it, but held her ground. She didn’t want to expose herself too much before knowing what he was after.

Obi-Wan rounded the pond to sit on the opposite curve. Stealing glances, she watched him settle and cross his legs. He kept his feet out of the water, but dipped the fingers of one hand in. He hummed happily at the coolness and splashed a bit.

"Actually," he continued, "they remind me of the pools in the Temple gardens." He curled his fingers under the water, beckoning a sink-crab. The creature snapped its claws, but didn't pinch. It only floated a few inches out of reach, considering him curiously. "I used to love sitting by them. Do you remember?"

She did. It was where the two of them first met. He was a newly appointed Knight, still reeling from loss, and Kuli fresh from the first round of her trial. They'd both gone to the Room of a Thousand Fountains to be alone and gravitated toward the same pool. In hindsight, Kuli thought she might've been more drawn to Obi-Wan's energy. Even slogging through grief, he was a calming presence.

The man sighed, but didn’t look up from the pond. He extended his fingers toward the sink-crab to lure it in. The creature hesitated a little longer, but eventually gave into curiosity and buoyed up to rest in Obi-Wan’s hand.

“Will you say something? Please.”

She considered not, but only for a moment. It would be petty, and she didn’t want to be. Not really. She was exhausted, and fighting with him didn’t feel good. She didn’t like how much arguing they’d done recently.

"What do you want me to say?"

"Anything.” That wasn’t helpful, and Obi-Wan seemed to realize. After a moment, he added: “Tell me how you're feeling."

That-- felt irrelevant, and a little like a trap. How she felt about what, she wondered? Bail Organa and his scheming? The temple? The fights they'd been having? It felt like no matter which she responded to, her answer would be wrong. She didn't _like_ how she felt, hadn't since the purge began. It was as if her throat had been slashed on Kashyyyk, and all her goodness had drained out with the blood. She felt empty, and didn't like herself.

"You already know," she said, hoping to avoid opening a wound. "I told you last night."

"Partially," he allowed. He lifted his hand out of the water and the sink-crab scuttled, a little confused. "You certainly made your feelings about Senator Organa clear." 

She grimaced. "It isn't about him."

"What is it about, then?"

She drew her legs out of the water and tucked them to her chest. The wet seeped through her tunic. She ignored it. Wrapping her arms around her shins, she rested her chin on her knees, wondering if it was too late to go back to saying nothing. 

It probably was. Obi-Wan was staring now, dripping hand cupped to his chest. The crab was crawling up his wrist, claws raised high and sink bladders distended. It snapped in irritation, which he either ignored or didn’t notice. It only heightened the crab’s annoyance; the creature paced his arm wildly. It didn’t pinch him, though. It didn’t seem to want to hurt him. It was only trying to get away and making a fool of itself in the process. 

Kuli wondered if that’s what she’d looked like for the last few weeks.

“Did you ever meet Farrah?” she asked. “My Padawan.”

The name burned her tongue. She hadn’t said it aloud since screaming it as the girl was shot to pieces. If Obi-Wan wondered what that had to do with anything, he did her the favor of not asking. He only shook his head, waiting patiently for her to continue.

“You would’ve liked her. She was thoughtful. Charming. Bookish. She spent most of her time in the library bothering Master Nu.” Kuli remembered several afternoons where she’d had to drag the girl out of it, hours after Farrah missed a training session. Not intentionally. She was a good Padawan, but loved the library. Kuli always imagined that one day she’d be in charge of it. “She was going to be sixteen the next week. I could hardly believe it. She was getting so tall.”

The day she realized she had to look up at her Padawan had been strange. Farrah’s first growth spurt left her clumsy, the second made her lanky, and by the third, Kuli began to wonder if she’d ever stop growing. She was going to be a tall, thin woman. Her narrow build promised a future of speed and made their disagreements awkward. Kuli felt ridiculous scolding someone whose chest was level with her eyes.

“Sweet girl,” she muttered, squeezing her legs tighter. “Brave, and kind, and selfless. I didn’t deserve her.” Her eyes prickled, and she blinked to ward off tears. “It should’ve been me who died on Kashyyyk.” She felt Obi-Wan’s energy cinch tight, but pressed on. “She was younger and more important. She should’ve run. She should’ve let me deal with it, but she didn’t. She used her body like a shield instead.”

Kuli could still smell it: meat torn open by plasma bolts. It was a familiar, awful stench. She’d smelled hundreds of troopers die. She knew the fleshy sound of shots making impact, the aborted shriek made more out of shock than pain. Fatal injuries that didn’t bleed, just burned and smoked and stank, leaving a being pawing at a cauterized wound until they blacked out.

“I couldn’t take her with me.” Her voice sounded like someone else. It was hollow, trembling, and distant. The weakness in it churned up bile. She wanted to stop talking, or maybe vomit. She couldn’t make herself do either, though. “They kept shooting. There wasn’t time. I had to leave her. She’s probably still--” 

Her jaw clenched. She didn’t want to think of what Farrah’s body looked like now. Whatever was left of it would be ruined. Shaking her head, which was starting to ache, she forced herself to continue.

“She didn’t have to die. She could’ve saved herself. It’s what I would’ve told her to do. But she didn’t. She decided that she needed to be a hero. She died like an animal for it, and so will you.”

The words came out more accusatory than she meant. She could hear the cutting edge, and it made her wince. Obi-Wan didn’t flinch from them, though. He sat, polite and considerate, watching her from his perch across the pool. After a moment, he lowered his hand to the water and let the sink-crab go. When it floated away, he drew back and wiped dry on his tunic.

“She didn’t do it for heroics,” he said, like he could possibly know. “She did it because she loved you.”

That was almost worse.

“I loved _her_. She shouldn’t known better, shouldn’t have--” 

She stifled the achingly stupid thing she wanted to say: that Farrah shouldn’t have left her. The girl was always going to, but it would’ve been easier to swallow if it came with her Knighthood. Kuli could’ve been proud. Now, she was just childless.

Obi-Wan’s face ran a quick gamut of expressions, settling finally on something that might’ve been pity. It was humiliating. She felt exposed, all her nerves caught under his fingernails. She wished he’d just get it over and start scratching.

He rocked onto his knees, then very carefully crawled to her side. He moved slowly, allowing her to track his approach. When she didn’t bolt, he took it as permission to come in close. He stopped with his knees pressed against her hip, so near that she could feel his breath. It puffed softly against her lekku and she whimpered, wishing she didn’t want him to hold her. The desire to be crushed against his chest was almost overwhelming.

“May I touch you?” he asked, like he’d plucked the thought from her head.

Later, she’d hate herself for how quickly she nodded. She couldn’t bring herself to just then. She jerked through the motion, embarrassed and wanting, and when his arms closed around her she shuddered. He hugged tight, resting his chin on her head, letting her butt against his neck. He was warm and comforting, and the dusty rose of his signature made the moment feel safe.

“I know you’re afraid,” he whispered, “and I know it’s been difficult, but I need you to trust me a little longer.” He shifted, scratching his beard over her lekku. It made her think of hugs from her old master. “I care for you. Do you believe that?” He waited for her to nod. “Then listen to me, please. This is important.”

He paused, considering his next words carefully. For a moment, she worried he’d pull away. She didn’t want him to yet. He felt good, and she burrowed closer, hoping to convince him to stay. Whether the ploy worked or it was his intention all along, Obi-Wan didn’t sit back. He adjusted his hold, stroking his thumb over her shoulder.

“We made a decision. We’re going to Alderaan-- listen.” It was a gentle reprimand, but one all the same. Kuli bit her tongue to fight back a protest. “No one’s made a commitment,” he assured. “We just want to hear what the senator has to say, and we can’t do that from here. He won’t share intel via comm. Whatever details we want, we have to ask for in person.”

He waited a few beats, giving her time to disagree. When she didn’t take it, he rewarded her with a tighter squeeze. She whimpered again, feeling helpless and needy. She wondered if he’d ever be able to take her seriously again.

“We’re going in teams,” he continued. “It’s less conspicuous. You, Del, and Lars are going first. Anakin and I will be about two weeks behind, which gives you time to decide.” He nuzzled the top of her head, effectively dashing her questions about where he and Skywalker would be. “Speak with Senator Organa and the Queen. Ask them questions, and listen to what they say. _Really_ listen. They’ll be honest; they won’t lie or try to recruit you. If you don’t like what you hear--”

Obi-Wan stopped. Close as they were, Kuli could feel him chewing his tongue. His energy darkened for a moment, going a dismal blue as if he didn’t like what he was going to say.

“You aren’t a prisoner. You’re my sister, and I don’t want you to suffer. If you need to go, Senator Organa will give you a ship. He’ll fully supply you and arrange for you to go to the temple, or anywhere else. No one will stop you. You have my word.”

For a moment, she wasn’t sure she heard correctly. When the words sank in, she stiffened against his chest.

“Trying to get rid of me?” she whispered, feeling lightheaded and off balance.

“No. If it were my choice--” He paused. “But it isn’t. It’s yours, and I won’t stop you from making it.” His grip tightened impossibly, like he thought at any moment she might turn to smoke. His hands were hot. “Do what you need to on Alderaan, but promise me you’ll think it through carefully.”

He kissed her lekku, and Kuli couldn’t ever remember feeling more fragile.

* * *

Leaving Bestine was less of a relief than touching down on it. Though Obi-Wan had been anticipating taking leave of the planet for days, and had been thrilled initially to get clearance for their teams from the senator, he couldn't help but feel a pang as they loaded their ships.

It twisted up his gut that they were separating again. It had only been a few weeks since they'd reunited, and the trouble with Kuli still hadn't properly resolved. Splitting before it did felt like resigning her to turmoil. There was nothing more he could do, though. He knew that objectively. He'd argued and bartered with her for weeks. The last card he had to play had been offering her an escape. Whether not she'd take it or stay was her decision.

There was no use worrying about it, he told himself as Anakin guided their ship out of idle. She was her own being, and would do what she thought best. All he could hope for was a chance to see her again. He wanted her to heal, as Anakin had started to, and to break herself free of guilt and shame. She blamed herself for Farrah's death, resented living, resented everything, and it was eating away at her already unstable core. She needed to find peace, and if she couldn't do that with their group, it’d be selfish to try making her stay. 

Anyway, their team's individual courses were already set: Del's for a landing pad in the mountains bordering Aldera, and Obi-Wan's for the barren plains of Vrogas Vas. They were on separate arcs again, and she was out of his hands.

"Approaching atmo," Anakin warned, pulling Obi-Wan out of his thoughts. "Twenty seconds out. Make sure you're strapped. Hull's getting rickety again." 

Obi-Wan double-checked his crash webbing before returning his hands to the shuttle’s secondary controls. He fisted the thruster, prepared to ease back or punch on command, and let his off hand come to hover over lightspeed. The gear was technically the pilot's responsibility, but Obi-Wan had taken to manning it when he could. Depressing it tore at the scarring at Anakin's shoulders, and while the other never thanked his old master, he also never complained. 

"Rickety," Obi-Wan repeated, not liking the fact that it was coming up _now_. "Why didn’t you patch it on the ground?"

"We were low on scrap, and Del's repairs couldn't wait. Ours could." He wet his lips. "I think."

Obi-Wan bit back a groan. Of all the gambles to make. Then again, there hadn't been much choice. The other shuttle wouldn't have made it through atmo again. It’s hull was too deeply compromised. At Anakin’s insistence, every bit of spare metal in both their inventories was sacrificed to repairing it. Obi-Wan could only hope the younger man hadn’t miscalculated. He didn’t relish the thought of being ripped apart in hyperspace.

When they broke atmo the ship lurched, jarring them both. Anakin grit his teeth and forced the yoke to stabilize. Obi-Wan closed his eyes to block out the chaos. It didn’t help. If anything, it made it worse. Motion sickness threatened to make him gag as they tore a hole through Bestine’s atmosphere. It took a full minute for the rattling to settle, and even when it did, Obi-Wan could taste rising bile.

He breathed through it, eyes squeezed shut, and listened to Anakin run diagnostics on the ship’s body and controls. His own sickly breathing cut over the _ding_ of the instrumentation. 

“She’ll live,” the other said after a moment, “but we should probably do repairs on Vrogas Vos.” Obi-Wan heard the man unclip his crash webbing. “Think the other group will have any scrap to spare?”

Obi-Wan gave a hum, testing his nausea by cracking open one eye. He wasn’t sure what they’d have. Bail said he’d sent supplies, but there was no way of knowing how much of that would be surplus. The temple, as he understood it, was a wreck. The records he’d come across in the library as a Padawan all referenced it being abandoned. It was already ravaged when he was a child. If it was anything but rubble now, they’d all be lucky.

“I’m not sure we can count on that." He swallowed thickly, allowing his eyes to fully open. The cockpit swirled around him in protest. Black space was moving slow through the viewport, and even that gentle motion made him sick. “We can ask, but we may have to take their ship to Alderaan.”

“That might be better,” Anakin muttered, but he didn’t sound pleased. A slight edge came over his voice when he next spoke. “Didn’t you say your _friend_ gave them a new one, anyway?”

Obi-Wan’s brow pinched. He didn’t like how Anakin’s tone peeled back from the word. If it was an isolated incident, perhaps, but it wasn’t. Every time Bail Organa was mentioned, the younger man's signature prickled. Whether the senator's name slipped into conversation or Anakin wandered into the crew hold while the two were sharing a call, the other never failed to bristle. Something about Bail seemed to put him instinctively on edge.

He couldn’t puzzle it out. As far as Obi-Wan knew, the two of them never had trouble before. Anakin’s fondness for senators began and ended with his wife, but Bail had never actively irritated him. They were polite to one another and had a decent rapport. Bail’s support of the Jedi and friendship with Padme smoothed over their differences. Now, however, it seemed that Anakin was reconsidering.

“I did,” he allowed, prying his hands from the controls to undo his own sweaty straps. Once free, he sat up straighter and twisted, working stiffness from his back. “Senator Organa has always been generous. I’m sure if we asked, he’d replace this scrap heap fodder for us.”

“If _you_ asked, maybe.”

The younger man’s attention was fixed on the instrumentation. His fingers worked it, flipping switches and adjusting dials. When he reached the navicomputer interface, he tapped the old screen to verify coordinates. None of it seemed necessary. Their course had been set since before liftoff.

“Or you,” Obi-Wan said, not really sure if it was true. Bail had sworn that he trusted Obi-Wan’s judgment, and the fact that he was allowing Anakin to come to Alderaan proved that. How that would play out in person remained to be seen, though. “You’re his ally as much as I am.”

Anakin’s eyes left the panel, cutting aside to Obi-Wan. He quirked a brow and something chilly speared their bond: a sort of strange suspicion tangled up with jealousy. Obi-Wan grimaced. So _that’s_ what this was about. Anakin had always been possessive. Even when the other was a boy, Obi-Wan had recognized it. He kept few friends, and those he did, he guarded like things. What Anakin felt entitled to, he clung to like a thorny vine. It was a tendency Obi-Wan criticized in the past, and wasn’t above doing so again.

“Even if you weren’t,” he continued, hoping to dig this up at the root, “it wouldn’t matter. I’m allowed to have friends, as are you. Jealousy is--”

“The cousin of greed,” Anakin finished, voice droning and bored. He rolled his eyes back to the panel. “I remember that lecture. You don't have to repeat yourself, master.”

If the younger man realized he said it, it didn’t embarrass him. The swirl of his energy was neutral and unchanged, and after initiating their flight to the hyper route entry, he excused himself.

Obi-Wan stayed put, trying not to feel punched in the gut.

* * *

Vrogas Vas was a three day flight from Bestine, neither the longest or shortest they'd endured. It was, to Obi-Wan's relief, the most comfortable though. The stay on the island seemed to have done their relationship good.

He and Anakin spent almost all of their time in the crew hold, either at Anakin's bench or in one of the booths. They took turns preparing meals and brewing evening tea, making frequent, albeit stilted, small talk. Obi-Wan read or played back lectures from one of the holocrons while Anakin busied himself with schematics. Del had let the younger man take a few of his datapads, and Anakin wasn't wasting the opportunity. He heavily edited stored designs, occasionally opening a new file and starting one over altogether. It was detailed, thoughtful work, and Obi-Wan found it engrossing. Anakin, as always, was a marvel to watch.

Even without a tool in hand, he approached the work with reverence: made careful lines and arcs with the tips of his fingers, using his off hand to take sloppy notes and calculations that Obi-Wan couldn't make sense of in the margins. Occasionally, when curiosity got the better of him, he put his own distraction aside and asked questions about what Anakin was doing. Usually, he regretted it. Any interest at all sent Anakin rambling, and by the fourth or fifth minute Obi-Wan was hopelessly lost.

"Are you even listening?" Anakin would ask when his eyes began to glass.

Obi-Wan would have to shake his hazy disinterest clear.

"I am," he'd sigh, nose scrunching up in confusion, "which I believe is the problem."

It was the sort of response that always earned him a snort of amusement. Anakin appreciated self deprecation, if only because it provided him with an opportunity to sink his teeth in. Whether he did or not depended on his mood.

All in all, it was an easy sort of journey. The days were uneventful, which Obi-Wan preferred. It reminded him of their flights together as master and apprentice, or the ones they'd shared during the clone wars-- the calm before battle or the relieved fatigue after one. It was companionable, and the older man was grateful. The icy tension of their first few flights after Anakin's coma had made sharing space almost unbearable, and it felt good to be able to relax with one another. It might even, Obi-Wan thought, feel like a return to normalcy. Anakin was still a little standoffish, but that wasn’t new. The younger man had always been moody and given to retreating into himself. The fact that he could do so without filling the crew hold with the stink of his fury was, in Obi-Wan's opinion, a vast improvement.

There _was_ one minor ripple in the peace, though Anakin could hardly be blamed. Obi-Wan supposed he couldn't be either; it was only that between the two of them, he was the one directly involved.

It happened for the first time early on in their stay on Bestine. Not the first night. The second, perhaps, or maybe the third. The particular day was less memorable than the event, which proved to be the case each time after.

He dreamed sometimes, and it was always the same. Obi-Wan would find himself walking the path through the outer shells of the Temple ziggurat. It was shadowy and empty of all but himself. At least, it seemed to be for a while. Soon, however, he'd become aware of a _presence_. Then he'd hear it, and something in his belly would start to drip. It was a wet, animal sound, cut over by breathy inhales. He _knew_ it instinctively, as well as he knew he should turn around. 

He never did. Taking step after gummy step, Obi-Wan would creep to the source. When he'd find it, stuffed in a recess between the wall and a statue of a master, his gut flipped so violently that his knees felt numb. It was Anakin, tabards and tunic all rucked up to show his belly, pants open and shoved down to mid thigh; Padme too, the dress she wore forced off her shoulders to expose her chest, and she was-- no, she couldn't be.

Except, she was.

Even if he couldn't see it, there'd be no denying where the slick, mouthy noises were coming from. He _could_ see it, though: her flushed, hollow cheeks and heavy lids, head bobbing in a practiced, lazy rhythm. She was taking her time, giving up muffled punches of groans as she took Anakin deep in her throat. She looked filthy, one hand at his root and the other between her legs, pawing at herself over her dress. Now and then she’d twist her wrist, stroking what she couldn’t swallow, and Anakin would grunt like he’d been stabbed. The hand tangled in her hair would tug, ruining her braids, but she didn’t seem to care. She’d gotten the reaction she wanted.

And Obi-Wan would stare, feeling faint and sore and jealous. He wanted to join and touch and help her. He wanted to guide her hand out from between her legs and rub her himself, coax out throatier groans for Anakin’s cock to stifle. He wanted to know if Anakin would _feel_ it when she rumbled. 

When he woke, he'd be covered in a thick slime of sweat, the cot's thin sheets sticking to skin. He’d be out of breath, foggy, and so hard that when he pressed his legs together and rolled to his side, the pressure made him wince. He'd ignore the jolt of pain, bury the moan that threatened to bubble up when the ache faded to something more pleasant, and spend the next ten minutes willing himself to relax, praying that he hadn't bled naked want through his and Anakin's bond.

If he did, the younger man was uncommonly tactful. He didn't say anything about it either on Bestine or during flight, which either meant Obi-Wan hadn't projected or he had, but Anakin was choosing to be gracious. Either way, his silence on the matter was a relief. Obi-Wan didn't feel equipped to discuss the dreams and what they meant, and certainly not with the man they were about.

There was a moment late the second afternoon where Obi-Wan thought the subject would come up. He shuffled out of the sleeper after a nap, composed but still fixated on the illicit dream, to find Anakin at the booth they normally shared dinner in. Not eating, working, or even reading; he was just staring, like he'd been waiting.

Obi-Wan stopped short, caught off less by the attention than what it implied. Anakin knew he was coming, must've sensed him waking. There was no other reason for the other to be waiting. No other reason, of course, except that perhaps a flood of foreign want disturbed him, and he'd been stewing in it since before Obi-Wan woke up. 

Which one it might've been was impossible to tell. A quick survey of Anakin's expression gave nothing away. He was relaxed, hands cupped around a steaming mug, looking neither scandalized or entirely neutral. An odd shine was in his eyes, and trying to place it by digging through their bond didn't help. The younger man didn't block him out, but he was editing what flowed through so heavily that the emotions Obi-Wan caught felt muted and vague.

"Feel better?" he asked, his voice oddly sugary.

It reminded Obi-Wan of the moans the other made in the dream. He swallowed, staunching the flow of warmth and tried to focus.

"What?"

"Your headache."

Ah. Right. "Much better. Thank you."

Anakin shrugged it off, not looking away. Obi-Wan felt pinned like an insect in the door. With considerable effort, he forced himself to head toward the kitchenette, hoping that making tea would calm his nerves. If nothing else, having something to do would tamp down the lingering heat from his dream. He could still feel the echoes of ignored desire low in his belly, and having Anakin's full attention wasn't helping.

When he'd nearly passed the booth, Anakin caught his arm, his hand snaring Obi-Wan by the bicep. It wasn't a firm grip; the older man could've tugged free. He didn't, though. He froze, looking down at the other curiously. 

Anakin met his gaze and held it quietly, a sharp and sudden clarity to his thoughts. Obi-Wan still couldn't make sense of them. Their bond was being too tightly controlled, a fact that ramped up Obi-Wan’s anxiety. What could the younger man be thinking? Had he _actually_ picked up on the dream? And if he had, what must he think of his old master now? Obi-Wan thought back to every bath and bed they’d shared over the years, and more recently to Anakin’s reliance on him for the nerve cream, with muted horror. Might Anakin think-- no, surely he wouldn’t. Or maybe he would. It was difficult to guess what Anakin would do these days.

Wanting to get out from under what promised to be, at its mildest, an exceptionally uncomfortable conversation, Obi-Wan scrambled to think of something to say. Something placating, reassuring, that would diffuse whatever was coming. 

"Don't bother," Anakin said, and Obi-Wan went rigid, thinking that the other had been spying. The suspicion faded when he gestured to the mug. "I already made it. I heard you getting up and figured you want it."

Obi-Wan looked between his friend and the cup, then gave a short sigh of relief. Of course, he thought. He was being ridiculous, and it wasn’t unusual. Not since the world had turned on its head, in any case.

"Am I that predictable?" he asked, adopting a teasing tone.

He gently tugged his arm back and Anakin let him go. His hand dropped into his lap, and with the other he nudged the mug to the opposite side of the table. He waited for Obi-Wan to settle into the booth before responding.

“Recently? No, actually. Not very.”

Obi-Wan sipped his tea, not allowing himself to ask what Anakin could possibly mean by that.

* * *

In Anakin's defense, he hadn't been wrong. The repairs his and Obi-Wan’s ship needed were able to wait. When he’d said that though, he’d hoped the wait would be longer. Flipping nose over tail and catching fire in atmo weren’t ideal landing conditions.

Unfortunately, they were the conditions he’d gotten them into. It was his fault, he decided halfway through the plunge. He didn’t know how exactly, but he was the pilot. He must’ve done something, or forgotten to do something else. Either way, they were kriffed.

In _Obi-Wan’s_ defense, and despite the fact that he spent the entire spiral towards the surface cussing colorfully, the older man proved helpful. After the shock of their shuttle’s unstoppable careening fully hit, Obi-Wan was overtaken by an old, familiar calm. He and Anakin had crashed a dozen times before, and they both knew what to do. It was almost routine.

Not waiting to be asked, the other engaged the emergency landing sequence. While Anakin yanked back on the yoke, trying to flatten their curve, Obi-Wan also managed to send out a distress signal. Using the frequency Senator Organa had provided for the temple, he broadcasted their trajectory data and approximations for their final coordinates. He sent a brief message as well, screeching his and Anakin’s names to confirm their identities. Good practice, though Anakin wasn’t sure it’d be audible over the emergency alarms.

The cockpit was full of smoke by the time the surface came into view. Anakin choked and forced himself to blink through it. His eyes burned and teared, making it hard to focus, but he kept jerking the yoke around anyway. He could hear Obi-Wan flipping switches and smacking the instrumentation, trying to coax a few more functions out of it. It didn’t seem to help. Actually, he knew it didn’t. At least half of the emergency landing sequence failed. 

By then, they should’ve been shedding velocity. Their landing struts should’ve deployed and what was left of the flare panels on their shredded wings should’ve turned out. Both would’ve caused drag, maybe enough to lurch the ship out of its tumble. That didn’t happen, though. They just kept spinning towards the sand in loops so tight that they made Anakin sick.

Landing was going to hurt. It might even be fatal. Anakin wasn’t sure. He was pulling back on the yoke so hard that he was worried it’d snap, and he still couldn’t level them out. If they got lucky, they’d land without their exit blocked. It’d have to come down to luck, though. The emergency sequence wasn’t going to make it happen, and neither was his desperate maneuvering. It was out of his hands, he realized. They were going to die, or they weren’t.

He spent the last thirty seconds before hitting ground tightening his crash webbing.

He didn’t feel the impact, or didn’t remember it. The second option was the most likely. He’d obviously passed out, because seconds or minutes later he jerked awake, his back and chest throbbing from the strain. He was crooked in the pilot’s chair, body twisted from the fall. Groaning, he forced himself to sit up straight and tear free of the crash webbing, performing a hasty physical. Thankfully, nothing felt broken and all his prosthetics were still secure. Small favors. He ached though, vision was blurry, and his lungs burned from the acrid electrical smoke. He tasted blood and felt nauseous, and it was only the adrenaline that kept him from leaning over to vomit.

There wasn’t any time for that. The smoke was black and dangerous. Heat was rolling through what was left of the ship. If they didn’t get out soon, he and Obi-Wan would burn up with it. They needed to open the emergency tophatch, if they could.

A glance through the front viewport confirmed their angle. They’d more or less landed upright, or rolled there. The ship was tilted starboard, the emergency hatch fully exposed. All they’d need to do was hop out of it.

That turned out to be more trouble than Anakin would’ve liked. If forcing himself to stand was difficult, getting Obi-Wan up was almost impossible. The other man had apparently been so wrapped up in the instrumentation that he hadn’t double checked his crash webbing. Most of it was secure, but a few supporting straps were forgotten, flapping uselessly by the sides of his chair. Without them, he got tossed like a doll through the crash. When Anakin got to him, he was bloody and limp.

“You’ve got to get up,” Anakin grunted, voice hoarse from the smoke, as he ripped Obi-Wan free of his crash webbing.

He wasn’t as gentle as he should’ve been. Obi-Wan probably had a few broken ribs or cracked clavicles. The older man’s whimpers as he was torn out of his straps confirmed the suspicion, but there wasn’t time to worry about it. 

“I’m going to carry you,” Anakin shouted over the alarms. “We’re leaving, ok?”

His old master grunted in either pain or agreement. Whichever it was, Anakin was glad to hear it. It meant he was lucid enough to know he was being spoken to. It wasn’t much, but better than nothing. Anakin would take it.

Crouching, Anakin worked a shoulder under him, bearing his weight and lifting him onto his feet. The bad angle and extra weight whited out his vision and he stumbled, but forced himself to work through it.

 _All you have to do is get outside,_ he told himself. _You can drop him when you’re done._

It took too long. Obi-Wan was dead weight, and the scar tissue banding Anakin’s back made him difficult to carry. He couldn’t fully support the other, and what he could manage made his injuries scream. If they lived, Anakin expected to be crippled for days. 

By the time he got them to the hatch, threw it open, and dragged them up through it, he couldn’t breathe. His chest felt like it’d been stuffed with coals. Dizzy from fumes he fell, taking Obi-Wan with him, and the two landed in a heap next to the ship. The hull was scorching hot and belching flame beside them. It was dangerous, but they laid for several seconds, retching and making wounded animal sounds, both too weak and stunned to move away. 

Eventually, Anakin’s vision cleared enough for him to focus. He grabbed Obi-Wan’s collar and dragged the man some distance away. He propped them both up on a dune: far enough from the wreckage to breath clean air, but close enough that they’d be seen whenever their rescue arrived.

For the next several minutes, neither man said anything. Anakin laid against the dune, too lightheaded to care about the grit digging into his already irritated scars, and panted as he tried catching his breath. It kept coming short, tearing at his sore lungs and throat. He needed water, but wasn’t going to get any soon. Theirs was burning on the ship along with the rest of their rations, supplies and-- 

_And_.

Remembering the duffel bags still trapped in the cargo hold, Anakin’s gut made another flip. All the clothes and artifacts, handmade beads, the sabers, the _braids_ \-- it was trapped, and the only way to it was through the burning ship. Even if the back entry wasn’t half buried in sand, it’d be impossible to force open from outside. The ship’s failing systems would at least be able to still engage lockdown. There wasn’t a way around it. He’d have to drop back down through the emergency hatch, try to make it through the fire, grab what he could--

He didn’t realize he was moving, halfheartedly scrambling to his knees, until Obi-Wan’s hand locked around his elbow. The grip was weak, but he didn’t try to wriggle out of it. He didn’t want to hurt the man any more than he was. 

Looking at him, Anakin could hardly believe that his old master was awake. His face was bruised, the bridge of his nose split open. Bruises were forming under his eyes and along his cheeks. He must’ve smashed his face into the console. 

“The bags,” Anakin bleated, panic building under his confusion. 

His head felt foggy. He was tired and wanted to sleep, but he couldn’t. He was probably concussed, and someone had to try getting the cargo. They’d brought it here for… what? Peace? Closure? Whatever it was, it wasn’t going to happen if it burned.

“You can’t,” Obi-Wan said, his voice slurred and gummy. He didn’t let go of Anakin’s arm, though the position was clearly hurting him. He was wincing, teeth bared. Their white fronts were slick with blood. “You won’t make it. It’ll burn anyway.”

 _So will you_ , he didn’t say, and he didn’t have to. The ship was a ball of oily flame. Anakin probably couldn’t have gotten more than three feet from it without getting licked. 

He shuddered, thinking of burns and what charred skin smelled like. He gagged again, leaning forward to spit. The shift tore at his scars, making him hiss. Everything hurt, and he thought that even over the roaring fire, he could still hear the loot screaming.

Bringing it to Vrogas Vas was supposed to make that stop. Putting the statues in their places, storing the holocrons, burying the clothes, enshrining the sabers and meditation aids, cremating the braids. It was a ritual. It was supposed to make the echoing violence fade. He couldn’t say or do anything that’d make a difference to the dead. The damage done to them was permanent. They’d been absorbed by the Force, and even if they could hear him, they wouldn’t care. What he felt and why wouldn’t matter to them. He didn’t expect it to. 

He wasn’t asking for a miracle. He just wanted to be left alone.

“Shaking,” Obi-Wan said.

It took several seconds for Anakin to realize that the man was talking about him. He clenched his fists and tightened his core, trying to stabilize. It didn’t help. His breath shuddered through him like a storm. He wasn’t crying, and he was grateful. He couldn’t afford to lose the moisture, and his head was already pounding. He was miserable though, felt weak, exposed, and overwhelmed. Even though he knew it’d kill him, he wanted back on the ship.

The other must’ve sensed it, because he didn’t let Anakin go. The golden relays on Anakin’s arm registered the pressure, communicating touch with intimacy. It still felt nice. Or-- no. Grounding. Like it wasn’t about to fly apart in the sand.

“The ship was old,” the older man tried again, forcing coherency. He cleared his throat and spit. It sounded thick. “We patched it with scrap. It was going to happen sometime. It’s not your fault.”

Anakin gave a breathy laugh. What a stupid thing to say. It _was_ his fault. He was the pilot, and the reason they were on Vrogas Vas in the first place. The ship was just another fire he’d started and couldn’t put out. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, the words tearing up through his chest like a blade. “I should’ve been more careful, or said something sooner. I should’ve known--” He bit his cheek, breaking the uncomfortable flow. He wasn't sure if he was talking about the ship or everything else. “I could’ve killed you,” he redirected, because that was an easier mistake to talk about. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to.”

Obi-Wan didn’t respond for several seconds. Anakin could feel the other’s attention worming through him. He didn’t look aside to meet it, didn’t want to tack on any more embarrassment. He already felt overexposed. He kept his own eyes on the ship, watching how it burned. The fire was huge, but contained by the dampening sand. If they were lucky, it’d fizzle out by sometime the next morning. They could ask their rescuers to fly them back later to pick over the wreckage.

“If a shipwreck was all it took to kill me,” Obi-Wan sighed, “you’d have already done it. I’ve walked away worse from more dramatic landings.” 

He squeezed Anakin’s arm tighter, thumb sweeping over a cluster of sensors. It was like being touched through a dozen layers. Anakin didn’t feel it so much as he was aware that he _should_. He appreciated the gesture, though, and Obi-Wan’s willingness to gloss over the disaster. 

He didn’t deserve that, didn’t deserve a lot of things that Obi-Wan was apparently interested in giving. But, that was Obi-Wan. It was what he did. If he had his way, his old master would give out chances until the tendency got him killed. Not for the first time, it made Anakin feel like he was tricking him. 

It was hard to feel bad about that when Obi-Wan was still touching him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I had fun, though it was a little more emotional than expected. I’m excited about the time the boys are going to spend at the temple. Are you looking forward to meeting the other group? I hope so! I can’t wait to introduce them.


	15. Temple Ruins, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! This update came quick, huh? I was really inspired with this one. We’re rolling right into the temple, so I hope everyone is ready. I’m already enjoying the arc and the new characters. Happy reading, and let me know what y’all think :)

The sun was dipping low and smearing the sky the color of blood by the time their rescue arrived. It took hours, all of which Obi-Wan spent watching the fireball that used to be their shuttle burn down. It wasn't totally banked when he heard the first rumble of an engine, but it was lower and contained. The sand kept it from spreading, which he was grateful for. He didn't like the idea of trying to make another escape.

"Someone's coming," Anakin muttered, his throat as dry as the heat, when he heard the distant sound himself.

The arm he had around Obi-Wan's waist tightened. The older man winced, but his friend didn't release the pressure. It was a reflexive, perhaps even protective gesture, as though Anakin expected whoever was coming to snatch his old master up. Perhaps he did. The dunes they were stuck in could've been Tatooine. Downed ships and their crews never avoided being impounded there for long. 

He didn't encourage the suspicion, but he also didn't pull away. It would agitate Anakin, whose infrequent touches were generally possessive, and cause more pain in his side. Obi-Wan suspected that at least half his ribs were broken. Anakin's touch was uncomfortable, but as yet not unbearable, so it was better to leave it alone.

"Our friends, no doubt." Closing his eyes for focus, Obi-Wan reached out through the Force. He sought out signatures in the barren stretch of sand ahead. "One of them," he corrected. "The rider is alone."

That seemed to calm Anakin. He didn't let Obi-Wan go, but his grip relaxed and settled around Obi-Wan's hip. Without seeming to consider what he was doing, he thumbed the bone through cloth.

"Even if it's not our rescue, one isn't so bad."

"It is," Obi-Wan assured, despite the fact that he couldn't know. Keeping the conversation moving drew his focus away from what Anakin's hand was doing. Thinking about _that_ would cause more problems than it'd solve at present. "But, see for yourself. They’re coming now."

Anakin followed Obi-Wan's nod to a far ridge of dunes in time to see a speeder break over it. It was a loud, clunky machine, dragging behind it some sort of rickshaw that rattled violently in the bike's wake. It took several minutes for the speeder to come in range. When it did, the rider banked hard to port of the smoking crash. They kicked the bike out of gear and slid off, tugging free of the covering that protected their face from the wind and sand.

It was a boy: the Tholothian who Bail said went by _Milo_. He was younger than Obi-Wan expected. He looked all of fourteen, and had the rangy appearance of a being in the middle of a growth spurt. His limbs were long and thin, but his face was still plump. His skin was dark and his tendrils a translucent red. Dangling between some of them was a long hang of silka beads. He wore them proudly in spite of danger.

The boy panted, taking in a few gulps of hot air without the uncomfortable face guard. After catching his breath, he gave the pair a grin.

"Kind of a rough landing, huh, masters?"

His voice was high and sweet, and the tease in it was friendly. He sounded relieved to find them alive.

"You could say." Obi-Wan returned the smile despite his pain. "You must be Milo."

The boy nodded and folded into a sloppy half bow.

"And you two must be lucky." He looked at the crash sending up black, filthy smoke. "When we got the trajectory data, I just _knew_ I'd be bringing corpses back."

"You don't sound too put out about that," Anakin grumbled.

The younger man was annoyed. Obi-Wan could feel it, though he wasn't sure if it was because of the teasing or the Padawan mistaking his rank. Whatever it was, it was only mild. How young the Tholothian was dulled its edge, as did the boy’s obvious glee. Childish excitement bounded all around him. Even Anakin couldn’t be immune.

"I would've been if you were dead, but you’re not. I get to bring back good news. How nice is that?” 

Anakin grunted in response, but the boy wasn’t paying attention. He’d turned to lean over his bike. Jack knifed over the body, he dug through a compartment near the rear, his boots kicking idly for balance. After several seconds he dropped back onto his feet and hoisted a large canteen for them to see. He uncapped it and took a swig, licking his lips so as not to waste any, then made his way to the dune where they were laying. When he reached them, he settled onto his knees by Anakin’s feet, using the long stretch of the other’s legs as a measure of distance. Identifying Obi-Wan as most in need, or perhaps only because he was the oldest, Milo offered the canteen to him first.

Obi-Wan accepted, though not without difficulty. His wrist must’ve been sprained; the weight of the canteen made him hiss. His fingers twitched as he tried to grip it, pain shooting up his forearm. Clucking his tongue, Milo batted his hand away. He guided the canteen to Obi-Wan’s lips himself, tilting it for him to take deep, hungry gulps. 

“That’s probably enough,” he said apologetically as he pulled the canteen away. “You don’t want to make yourself sick.”

Obi-Wan knew he was right. Too much would bloat his belly, especially when he was already nauseated. Still, his throat ached, and he briefly wondered how embarrassing it’d be to beg the Padawan for another drink.

Too embarrassing by half, he decided, and unfair. Anakin’s own thirst clawed like a creature through their bond. When it was offered to him, the other man snatched the canteen immediately. His pulls were just as greedy, but he gave the bottle back freely. He had more experience with rationing water in hostile conditions.

“There’s more,” Milo promised, capping off the depleted canteen. “I brought another for the ride. I figured you’d need it.”

“Thank you,” Obi-Wan said, and without thinking reached out to tug the silka beads tucked behind the boy’s ear.

It was a common affection, though usually by Milo’s age Padawans had outgrown it. Younglings leaned into the touch, but older beings found it embarrassing. That’d certainly been the case for Obi-Wan. Anakin grew to like it even less than he had, and started wiggling away much younger. Milo, however, accepted it happily. He even butted his tendrils into Obi-Wan’s palm.

“You don’t have to thank me. I volunteered to check the crash. It was this or get the med station ready.”

“Is that what the others are doing?” Anakin asked, eyes scanning the dune line like he expected more speeders to crest it.

“Skrit and Leta are. Master Wedge is prepping your room.”

“I thought you said you were expecting corpses.”

The boy shrugged. “As a rule, we try to expect everything, master. Makes us harder to catch off guard.”

Anakin bristled again, and Obi-Wan considered correcting the boy about his companion’s title. He decided against it, however, unsure the interference would be welcome. Opening his friend’s position up for scrutiny would likely only make Anakin more uncomfortable.

“We should get going,” the Tholothian said, craning his neck to look at the sky. Sunset was bleeding out fast. “It’s cold out here at night, and both of you need some time at the med station. We really should patch you up before bed.”

Milo stood and shook the sand out of his pants before gesturing to the idling bike.

“I’ll bring it close, then we can get you two loaded up and back to the Temple. And don’t worry, I’m a good driver.” He winked, not all reassuringly. “I’ve only crashed twice.”

* * *

Obi-Wan hadn’t been exaggerating, Anakin thought as the two were led up to the Temple. The place was a wreck, already half reclaimed by the desert.

He guessed only half because the other team had already spent a few weeks excavating.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Milo said, guiding them up a section of stairs that wasn’t entirely rubble. The doorway they were approaching was empty except for support struts, which were likely the only things keeping it up.

“Yea?” Anakin called ahead to the boy.

He adjusted his grip on Obi-Wan, hoisting the man higher onto his shoulders. He ignored the lick of pain it wrapped around his back. It didn’t matter. They were almost there. He could put him down soon.

Thankfully, Obi-Wan was more help than he’d been at the crash site. The ride back to the Temple had woken up him. The kicking hunk of junk that passed for an engine rattled the older man out of the stupor created by the heat. While they’d waited for rescue, it was all Anakin could do to keep him awake. Now, his old master was alert and moving his own two feet.

That didn’t mean Anakin wasn’t supporting the bulk of his weight. He was, and managing that without causing either of them more damage was more difficult than Anakin would’ve liked. No matter where he gripped Obi-Wan’s side, the other radiated pain through their bond. It was bone deep and distracting. Anakin was having trouble picking apart what hurts were his and what were Obi-Wan’s.

The kid offered to carry Obi-Wan from the speeder to the med station, but Anakin refused. Milo was too small, weedy thin and several inches too short to give the support Obi-Wan needed. The older man would just end up bent over the boy’s slim shoulders, and his dead weight would drag them both down.

“I thought it too when we first landed,” the Tholothian called back. When he reached the landing, he turned and waited for Anakin to catch up. “And you’re right. This place is a dump. But wait until morning. When the light comes, you’ll see its potential.”

Anakin snorted. He doubted that, but the kid’s bright mood made him want to humor him.

“Must be-- _kriff_.” Obi-Wan’s boot caught on a broken flagstone, knocking them off center. It took several seconds of stumbling for Anakin to stabilize them. Obi-Wan tried to apologize, but Anakin didn’t let him.

“Must be one hell of a sunrise,” he tried again, dragging more than guiding his friend onto the landing.

Milo’s attention darted between them, his friendly smile strained at the corners. He looked like he expected them both to go tumbling. He didn’t offer to help again, though, which Anakin appreciated. He didn’t want pity. He wanted a medic and somewhere to sleep.

“One of the best, master,” the boy said, shaking his anxious expression clear. He reset his smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. As they crossed the threshold he stayed close, looking ready at a second's notice to dive. “This is a binary system. Have you ever seen two suns come up?”

“I have, actually.”

“Then you know about the horizon fire effect.”

Anakin frowned as he thought back. Yes, he remembered that. It was an atmospheric trick: light splintering in the envelope. If the morning was perfectly clear, then just at dawn, light from the twin sunrises would explode. It made the entire horizon look like it was caught in a brush fire. It shimmered for half an hour sometimes.

“What about it?”

Milo jogged ahead to activate a floodlight. It lit up the room, showing that only half of it had been excavated. Sand mounded on the right side of the room, pouring in through the windows that either never had transparisteel in them or had lost it.

“Well, a while ago we unearthed some reflective panels in the courtyard. We thought they might be related to the crystals set in the stonework, but we weren’t sure until last week when there was a nice, clear morning. The second the light hit the panels, the whole facade lit up. It was like watching the building burst into flame.”

“Sounds handsome,” Obi-Wan grunted. It was the first thing he'd said since leaving the speeder. “Whoever was stationed here must’ve liked the fire effect.”

“That’s what Master Wedge said, but I think it means something else.”

Milo went ahead, forging a path for them along the clear side of the room. Next to it, and seeing where his own height fell on the clear windows, Anakin wondered how long it’d taken them just to dig this much out.

“Yea?” he asked again. “What’s that?

“I think that they wanted the Temple to be a beacon, something anyone could see from far off. This isn’t a very friendly place, and it’s easy to get lost. Once you’re out in the dunes, you’re on your own. At least, that’s how it is now. But I think that when Jedi were stationed here, the light was supposed to help beings navigate. If someone was stuck in the desert, all they’d have to do was look up to be reminded they weren’t actually alone.”

Anakin hummed. It sounded like something Obi-Wan would say: sentimental and impossible to prove. He didn’t think it mattered one way or another how the Temple was decorated, and guessed the crystals had probably just been for aesthetics. But the way Milo said it stirred up memories. It reminded him of sitting happily at Obi-Wan’s feet while his master told stories, having his head spun on its axis with wild guesses about art and legends.

He decided then that Milo probably wasn’t so bad.

When they reached the med station, which turned out to be an alcove just big enough for a cot to be stuffed in, the three of them found the Nautolans and Aadila Wedge waiting. When she saw the coming, the woman grinned.

“You two certainly know how to make an entrance.”

Against his side, Anakin felt Obi-Wan straighten. The man wriggled, trying to get free and stand on his own. Probably, Anakin guessed, because he thought it was rude to limp when meeting someone. 

He tightened his grip, refusing to let his old master go. The other turned to fix him with a pinched look. Anakin met it, holding his gaze as firmly as his waist until the other huffed and gave up. Slumping against Anakin’s side, he looked back to their host.

“Aadila Wedge, I presume?” 

The woman nodded and gave a bow. It was a deep, formal gesture her Padawan had botched earlier. Long red braids tumbled over her shoulders, and when she straightened she left them dangling over her chest. She was a tall, sturdy woman with an angular face. Her cheeks and nose were dotted all over with freckles. It made her look sweet, or her plush mouth did. If Anakin had crossed paths with her before, he’d have had trouble not turning for a second look.

“And you must be Master Kenobi. I don’t think we’ve met, but I know your reputation.” 

She crossed her arms. They were bare and strong, exposed by her sleeveless tunic. The other man shifted in response, padding his weight to test a leg. He must’ve found it agreeable, because some of the pressure on Anakin’s shoulders let up.

“From Senator Organa?” He gave a laugh, which immediately read as _too friendly_. “I trust you won’t hold anything he’s said against me.”

The woman’s brow quirked, and while Anakin couldn’t get a clear read, he could feel the Force around her swimming easy. Reaching through their bond, he felt the same comfort echoed in Obi-Wan. He resisted the urge to narrow his eyes. The older man was predictable. He never wasted an opportunity to air out his charms, and it seemed that he’d found another willing participant. How willing, exactly, Anakin wasn’t sure he wanted to know. 

He was still sore to the bone over his friend’s most recent holo chat with Bail. A few hours before their failed attempt at making planetfall, Anakin watched from around the corner as his old master took a call. It wasn’t about anything important. They just _bantered_. It was indulgent, and so was the way Obi-Wan let himself be pawed at. It made him want to smash the comm station to pieces.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to watch something similar play out in person.

“Not to interrupt,” he cut in, “but my friend is hurt.” Anakin curled a finger, eliciting a wince from the other man. The woman’s expression softened and he nodded to the cot. “Could we debrief while he’s being looked at?”

“Of course,” she said, stepping aside to give them room.

Anakin dragged Obi-Wan to the cot. He could feel the man glaring, but he ignored it in favor of placing him as carefully as he could near the head. Once he was settled, Anakin took a seat himself. He placed himself between his old master and the woman. It wasn’t foolproof. She could move, and probably would. Still, Anakin hoped it made his point.

After giving them both a few moments to settle, the Nautolans-- what had Milo said their names were?-- moved in to start their examination. It didn’t take long. The injuries were mild, at least in Anakin’s case. His crash webbing had kept him from getting tossed. He had a few broken ribs and a bruised sternum; apart from that, though, he’d just irritated his scars. One Nautolan, after performing their examine, wrapped his sides, dosed him with pain suppressant, then stepped away.

The one dealing with Obi-Wan had a little more work. In addition to half a dozen broken ribs, his clavicle was cracked, his wrist was sprained, and he had deep cuts across his chest. His nose, which was gashed, also needed to be reset. The Nautolan did that first. The crunching sound made Anakin sick, but Obi-Wan hardly seemed to notice it. Once it was reset he breathed in deeply and thanked the being, who didn’t care that they were being bled on. 

After mopping the blood off his face and beard, the Nautolan patched his wounds and stabilized his wrist. While that was being handled, Aadila Wedge stepped back into view to resume the conversation Anakin had interrupted.

“You know,” she began, hands balanced on either hip, “you two are really lucky. The trajectory data we received was grim. I’ve seen a lot of crashes, and I didn't think you'd be walking away from that one.”

Obi-Wan hummed. “Your Padawan said the same.”

“So, how’d you do it?” She looked genuinely curious. “All those alarms-- every one of your failsafes must’ve short-circuited.”

“Yes, well, thankfully the most reliable one kept his head.”

It took Anakin several seconds to realize Obi-Wan meant him. When he did, embarrassment curled in his chest. He cleared his throat, making a point to keep his eyes fixed on the wall.

“Is that so?” Wedge asked. 

He felt the precise moment her eyes skipped to him from Obi-Wan. Her attention was warm and stuck to his bare skin, all gummy. He wished the Nautolans had given his tunic back. 

“Well, maybe that shouldn’t surprise me. Anakin Skywalker, right?” She said the name slowly, like she was testing its weight. “You’re the one who brought down the _Invisible Hand_. Now that was a masterful crash.”

Anakin stiffened, not sure what he should say. Was it a joke? And if it was, was it funny? He let his attention fall on her, scanned her face for signs of a trick. He didn’t find any. She was smiling so widely it had to hurt. All her neat, bright teeth were on display and her cheeks were dimpling. Her eyes creased at the corners, and Anakin thought again about how nice she would’ve been to see on Coruscant. 

He must’ve taken too long because Obi-Wan cleared his throat. The sound was jolting, and he turned to look at his friend. The man’s head was cocked, one brow shot up in amusement. That didn’t help Anakin organize his thoughts.

“Wasn’t it?” Obi-Wan answered her, buying him time. “And, would you believe, not even his best? A sign of a galaxy-class pilot, as the saying goes, is surviving every crash.”

“Then your friend is one hell of a pilot.”

The open, easy praise was as disarming as the warmth bleeding out through the Force from where she stood. She was a genuine, friendly presence, kind in spite of everything that must’ve happened to her. If she was hurt or defeated, it was buried deep. Every part of her that was accessible to Anakin was peachy and sweet. It was impossible not to lean into. Like Obi-Wan, Wedge apparently had a talent for luring prey. 

With a treacherous heat building in his chest, Anakin cleared his throat. He tried thinking of something to say that would get him control of the conversation.

“I’ve, ah, had a lot of practice.”

He would’ve realized it was stupid even if she hadn’t laughed. She did, though. Not meanly, but that wasn’t much of a relief. The sound was musical, but it was still at his expense. She tilted her head back, lengthening her pale throat. Sweat was gathering at the base near a cluster of freckles. Padme had had a mole there. Anakin remembered kissing it, and was buried under a heavy wave of embarrassment.

Obi-Wan must’ve scented it, because seconds later Anakin felt the other’s stifled laughter shake the cot. When he whipped his head to glare, the man’s eyes were shining. He got the sense that the older man and Wedge were in league. Beings like them enjoyed riling others up. Maybe they thought it was funny. Maybe it was. Anakin didn’t know. He just felt bruised, and wanted more than ever to go to sleep.

“So I’ve heard, though probably nowhere near all of it.” The woman canted her hips. “The best news never reached my outpost. Maybe you can fill the gaps in for me sometime.” 

The rest of the night went quickly. With him and Obi-Wan patched up, Wedge and the others were eager to send them off to bed. Aadila had things she wanted to talk about, and Milo had questions about what they’d been up to, but everyone agreed that a discussion could wait. There were two weeks before they were expected on Alderaan, which was plenty of time to get familiar.

_Right now,_ the woman had said as she guided them to their bedroom, _it’s more important for you to heal._

That wouldn’t take long. Their injuries weren’t that serious. Obi-Wan was a fast healer, and for his own part, Anakin was more worried about not having the nerve cream than his broken ribs. He’d come to rely on its cooling numb. It helped keep him mobile without the fog of suppressants and sedatives. He didn’t want to rely on those indefinitely, but also didn’t want to go begging Senator Organa to scrounge some up. 

He could ask Obi-Wan, maybe. The other man would probably pass the request along, and if it came from him the senator wouldn’t say no.

The possible reason for that burned a hole through Anakin’s chest.

* * *

By the third morning of his and Anakin’s stay, Obi-Wan felt well enough to get up before dawn. As quietly as he could, he rolled off their sleeping mat, dressed, and let himself out of the room. Entering the dark hall, he found himself hoping that he was the first of everyone to wake.

He got his wish. He didn’t pass anyone on his way to the small camp stove that served as the Temple kitchen. He didn’t hear Milo, Master Wedge, or either Nautolan stirring. As he passed their rooms, all he sensed were beings at peace. Everyone, it seemed, was still deeply asleep. The cool darkness of the hall made them lazy, and Obi-Wan suspected they wouldn’t wake up unless he was careless.

He felt a thrill, and wondered where he should go first.

He chewed his options over as he knelt to make tea. He watched the kettle come to boil, thinking back to the tours he’d been given over the last several days. There weren’t many safe places inside to explore. The sublevel was still full of sand, and much of the southern reach of the ground floor was collapsed. It’d take some time, no doubt, for all of that to be fixed. The Temple had been allowed to decay for far too long.

There _was_ , as he understood, an accessible landing atop a staircase; not a second floor so much as an elevated alcove. Milo had gone once, though the rest of the group left it alone. From what sense Obi-Wan could make of his descriptions, it sounded like a shrine. Perhaps he’d visit it, or take advantage of the mild morning weather and walk the grounds.

He felt the whistle coming. The Force drew back in anticipation, and Obi-Wan snatched the kettle up before it could scream. He poured the water and got to his feet, walking without much intention while the tea steeped. He paced the excavated section of the atrium, enjoying the building citrus scent of the steam. 

When it was ready, he dumped the leaves out one of the windows and pocketed the steeper, making up his mind to visit the shrine.

He walked carefully in the direction he thought he remembered Milo describing, avoiding broken sections of tiling on the way. Darkness made it difficult, but he didn’t turn on the lights. Dawn would be breaking soon, and he wouldn’t need them. 

In the meantime, he reached out through the Force, allowing its ebb and flow through the building to guide him. In it, he sensed something. Not one of his companions; something else, somewhere ahead and up above. Its energy filtered down from a center lacking standard awareness, but still pulsed with life. It felt like memory.

Obi-Wan followed it, allowing himself to be led down a narrow hall without any windows. It was dark and his boots kept catching on debris. Stumbling jostled his ribs, still tender and healing, but he kept walking. The search eventually led him to the base of a set of stairs, which he recognized as the entrance Milo had mentioned. Excitement mounting, he toed of his boots and removed his socks before ascending, following the buzzing energy to its source.

When he reached it, he had to stoop to clear the archway. Taking that as a cue, he dropped to his knees and crawled inside. Once fully lodged in the space, he had to crane his neck to take it all in. The domed walls were wrapped all around with writing, scrawled with fading paint in a script he couldn’t read. Stuck between each word was a crystal like those on the facade. If sunrise filtered just so through the central oculus, the room would ignite.

He could almost picture the ruby glow, how it’d wash what was left of the color out of the fading ink. It’d look less like a distant fire than the heart of a gemstone. Obi-Wan hoped at some point that he’d get to see it.

Feeling a _tug_ , he allowed his attention to drag down the opposite wall. When he reached the base, he found a cluster of things that looked to have been left some time ago. A group of old, nearly burned down candles puddled wide wax rings, and next to them, a small bowl that must’ve once been used to collect offerings. Behind both was a stone statue the same length and thickness of his arm. It dominated the cramped space, and Obi-Wan instantly identified as the source of the buzzing.

With his focus honed on it, the zapping energy it leaked was sharp enough to rattle Obi-Wan’s teeth. It was a little unusual, though it didn’t feel threatening. It was more, Obi-Wan thought, that it felt alive. 

“Was it you?” he asked, voice low and hushed. 

It felt silly to be speaking to a statue, especially when he didn’t know whom it was of. The face was eroded, and he couldn’t read the etchings on the base plate. The body was in a familiar standing meditation pose, however. It must’ve been the likeness of a master.

The statue didn’t answer. Nothing about the energy changed. The room around Obi-Wan squirmed with the same electricity. Still, he couldn’t help but feel someone was listening. It made him want to think of something to say.

He dipped his fingers into his tea, gathering up liquid and smearing it down the front of the statue’s robes. After drying his hand, he bowed his head to it, speaking again only after he’d straightened up.

“This must be your Temple.” Again, no response. “I hope you don’t mind that we’re here. It must be strange. You’ve been alone for such a long time, but we don’t mean to intrude. We’d like to restore it, actually. I’m sure you’ve noticed the desert encroaching.”

He shifted his weight to take some of the pressure off his shins. He hadn’t been kneeling long, but the floor was rough. The stone was raggedly cut. Obi-Wan suspected that was with purpose. Shrines were usually made and maintained by ascetics.

“I wish someone had come sooner,” he continued, which was true. It would’ve been easier and quicker to restore. “And,” he sighed, setting his tea down to fold his hands, “I wish I could say that we’d only come to help.”

He licked his lips, still feeling ridiculous. He’d meditated in the presence of statues before, and he liked to think that occasionally he’d felt the spirit of who it represented. Obi-Wan had never tried speaking to one, though. For good reason. It wasn’t possible, to begin with. Even if some remnant of the master’s energy remained, and what Obi-Wan was feeling wasn’t just the collected imprints of pilgrims, no one was actually listening. Everything that made them sentient was gone.

“That isn’t why we’re here,” he continued anyway. “What’s left of your Temple is beautiful, and we’re happy to do what we can. Truthfully, though--” His brow pinched. “We only came because something horrible happened.”

A lump formed in his throat. He tried to swallow it, but it wouldn’t budge. It was thick and made the muscle around it ache. He hadn’t allowed himself to really think about the purge for more than a few minutes, here and there. He’d been afraid that if he did, he’d start crying and wouldn’t stop. That he’d shatter, and he couldn’t afford to. Not now. Not yet. He was needed.

Reaching aside, he dipped his fingers into the tea again and painted the statue’s face with the fragrant liquid. It didn’t change anything. The room maintained equilibrium, but it felt good to touch and tend. He did it a few more times, smearing tea like a libation. As he wet the stone, he let his throat work around the lump. He focused on the ache, and didn’t try to stop his eyes welling.

“I’m glad you aren’t here to see it. Sometimes, I wish I wasn’t either.” Saying it out loud made him feel like a coward. “It’s all so _wrong_. So many of us are gone, and the ones who are left--” He thought about Kuli, how she leached a chemical rage so thick it made his head ache. “They aren’t the same. Everything has changed.”

He sniffled, and when he felt the first tear streak his cheek, he raised his hand to scrub it away.

“I don’t know what to do or how to make things right. I don’t even know anyone can, and I’m afraid.” His voice broke around the word. “For myself, my friends, my-- Anakin. They all need me, but I’m so tired.” 

His cheeks were hot and wet. He scraped his sleeve over them, but it didn’t help. The tears were coming more freely, and had to keep blinking to stay focused. His eyes felt irritated and already a little swollen.

The statue had still given up nothing.

That was comforting, almost. So much had changed recently. It didn’t feel like there was a constant left in the galaxy. The shrine seemed constant, though. Almost all of the Temple had been swallowed, but it was untouched and unmoving. In all the centuries since the Temple had been abandoned, the little shrine in the spire had remained. The statue hadn’t been eaten by the sandstorms that wanted to claim him. The statue kept its high ground and waited. 

It didn’t matter, Obi-Wan thought, that it wasn’t responding. It didn’t have to. The carved master had never known him. The being didn’t owe him anything, but it was listening, and it felt good to say what he’d been bitten back for months.

“I’m tired,” he repeated, “and I’m afraid if I stop moving, I won’t be able to make myself start again. I need a moment, but I don’t know when I’ll get one. There’s so much to _do_ , and--” He trailed off, not sure what else he wanted to say. In the brief silence, he felt silly again. The sound of his sniffling was loud, and he pawed at his face self-consciously. “Forgive me, master. It was so peaceful before I came.”

He risked a glance at the statue to find it hadn’t moved and its ruined face hadn’t changed. Nothing about it suggested it was either pleased or annoyed. It was unaffected, and the energy flowing out from it didn’t shift. It crackled through the shrine with the same strange intensity that’d caught Obi-Wan’s attention before.

He sat in it mutely for several more minutes and let himself finish crying.

* * *

It wasn’t what he wanted, but for lack of options, Anakin let Skrit, the male Nautolan, to keep dosing him with suppressants. If it was a choice between that and a sedative, he knew which he preferred. At least the suppressant wouldn’t affect his connection to the Force.

It wasn’t perfect. The nerve cream had been local and fast, and the effects tended to last more than a day. Even after it started to fade, the wear off was slow. If Anakin was careful, and he’d learned to be, a single application could get him through three or four days. The suppressant was less effective and needed to be taken more often. 

Anakin’s arm was starting to bruise from the frequent injections.

“Do you think the senator’s med staff would know where to get a replacement?” Anakin asked one night as he and Obi-Wan prepped for bed.

“For what?” the older man asked, then noticed Anakin picking at an injection site. He grabbed the other’s hand, gently guiding it away. “It wouldn’t hurt to ask.”

Anakin grimaced. He knew that, but it didn’t change the fact that he didn’t want to ask. He didn’t like the idea of opening himself up to rejection, least of all over something he actually needed.

“Can you do it?” 

He tugged his tunic up over his head, gritting his teeth when the motion tore at his scarring. Vision glitching at the edges, he tossed it aside. He’d pick it up later when the pain subsided.

“I _could_ ,” Obi-Wan said, removing his own tunic. The motion was effortless and fluid. Anakin felt jealous. The sight of the color high on the other’s chest eased off some of the ache, though.

“But?”

Anakin popped the fastenings on his pants and shoved them down. They caught on the edge of his prosthetics, and he had to tug sharply get them off his legs.

Obi-Wan very obviously didn’t look.

“But,” the man continued, eyes on his own pants, like he suddenly found removing them interesting, “I think it’d be better for you to ask yourself.”

Anakin snorted. “Why?”

“Because soon you’re going to be working with him, and you’ll have to get used to asking for a lot of things.” Obi-Wan shoved his pants down. They didn’t catch on anything. His thighs were all flesh and thick muscle. “The sooner you start, the easier it’ll be.”

Anakin rolled his eyes and considered saying that ‘easy’ was relative. He resisted, though. Obi-Wan didn’t sound like he was interested in debating.

“So you’re not going to help me?”

It probably wasn’t a fair question. It probably also wasn’t fair that he didn’t redress. He was standing in his underwear, thighs, cock, and ass barely covered. Otherwise, he was naked. Obi-Wan seemed to have noticed, despite doing his best to keep his eyes on his own body. Anakin felt the other’s interest like a scratch at the base of his spine as Obi-Wan continued to very deliberately avoid looking. 

That wouldn’t work forever. His old master was almost finished getting ready for bed, and the bed was _behind_ Anakin. Eventually, he was going to have to look.

It was a cheap trick, and almost certainly wouldn’t work. Anakin knew his old master. It might get a rise, but it wouldn’t make him do anything he’d already decided against. Obi-Wan was, and always had been, frustratingly consistent. 

If he was honest, Anakin was doing it more to see the look on Obi-Wan’s face, and to feel what would flicker through their bond. The older man’s responses were getting warmer. And that was interesting. Promising, even. Before he risked saying anything himself, though, Anakin wanted to be reasonably sure.

“You should know by now that I’ll help you with anything,” the other man muttered, sounding annoyed. He finished slipping into his leggings and sleep shirt. “But getting help and getting what you ask for isn’t always the same thing.”

Anakin barked a laugh, and the sound finally drew the other’s skittish attention. Obi-Wan’s eyes scanned his face, took in Anakin’s half smile, then probably meant to cut away. That didn’t happen, though. Not immediately. Not before they dipped to scrape slowly down the line of Anakin’s chest. 

He let the other look, not daring to move, knowing it’d scare him off. When Obi-Wan’s eyes hit the waistband of his underwear, the man flushed and busied himself with combing through his hair.

“Right,” he said after the moment passed. “Let's just hope your friend isn’t feeling catty.”

A strange expression flickered over Obi-Wan’s face, too quickly for Anakin to make it out.

“Why should he be?”

Something tickled their bond before his old master blocked it off, presumably to get the flare under control. Anakin thought about pressing, but guessed Obi-Wan wouldn’t answer him. The older man was sensitive about Bail.

“I don’t know,” Anakin said, lowering himself onto their sleep mat. 

He rolled onto his belly and worked his arms under his pillow, propping his cheek on the lump of his hands. The linen was pleasantly cool on his face, and the give of the mat against his stomach wasn’t bad. His ribs still hurt, but it was better than trying to sleep on his back.

“You don’t know,” Obi-Wan said, “because there’s no good reason.” 

Without asking, he went to the wall and shut down the lights. The room went dark all but for a single slant of moonlight. Outside of it, Obi-Wan was just a shadow who could safely look anywhere he wanted.

Anakin laid still, watching the dark shape of his friend approach the mat they shared. Obi-Wan flickered through the patch of light, out again, dropped into bed, then stretched out comfortably onto his back.

The mat wasn’t large. From how close they were, Anakin could feel the other’s heat bleeding into his side. There was a buffer of a few inches, but that wouldn’t last. Obi-Wan crept close in his sleep. The older man always had. Anakin could remember a dozen times during the war where he’d woken up to Obi-Wan’s face buried in his neck. The other was more reserved now, but almost always still wedged in.

Once, on maybe the fifth night of their stay, while panting from a dream so sticky that Anakin scented it through their bond and lurched awake, the other had tried to worm even closer. Anakin felt him squirm against his hip, like the man desperately wanted underneath him. It made Anakin’s gut knot up to feel his old master rutting through a dream. He’d half given in, shifting to drape an arm over other’s chest. Obi-Wan settled down after that, but Anakin had trouble getting back to sleep.

Obi-Wan shifted, rocking his shoulders to soften the mat like a Loth-cat padding down grass. 

“Do you have enough room?” he asked, like there was anything he could do about it.

Anakin rolled his eyes. “You aren’t that big.”

“Compared to you? I suppose not.” Obi-Wan huffed a laugh. “If you wanted to, you could crush me.”

Silence stretched, during which Obi-Wan seemed to regret the words. Anakin felt him prickle over with a heavy, mortified want and allowed himself to smirk.

“Don’t get too comfortable. For all you know, I’m still planning to.”

Another long silence. Anakin could hear all of Obi-Wan’s gears click.

“Waiting for an opportunity to present itself?”

Anakin recognized the paraphrase. It was something he’d sneered on Coruscant when his heart still felt like it’d been cooked alive. Obi-Wan fed it back to him uncertainly, wanting to fall back on teasing to regain footing but unsure if that was something he could touch.

“Something like that,” Anakin said, deciding to let him have it, and the tension banding Obi-Wan snapped.

“I suppose I’ll just have to trust you.” He reached out to knuckle Anakin’s ribs. “Don’t make a fool of me. I’d be terribly embarrassed to die in my sleep.”

* * *

Breha watched her children press up onto their arms and, like a pair of newborn eopies, crawl gracelessly toward each other across the nursery, cooing happily along the way.

They’d started crawling the month before, though at the time they were more dragging their chubby legs along. More recently, they’d learned to scramble onto their knees. They still waddled wildly, but she thought they were getting the hang of it.

“Good!” said Greta, one of Breha’s younger attendants, who often joined the Queen in the nursery. She was the oldest of half a dozen siblings, and had much experience with babies. She was also in better health, and could more easily play.

It stung Breha a little, that she couldn’t strain herself. But it wasn’t Greta’s fault or the babies’, and all three of them looked so happy on the floor that she made herself content with being able to see it.

While she watched, Greta crawled alongside Leia, who squealed as she tried to keep up. She slapped her little hands on the floor as she scurried, making a bumbling beeline for her brother. Luke was moving slower, looking around the room in a daze. The colors of scattered toys kept catching his eye. When he wasn’t paying attention, his sister crashed into him and knocked them both back on their behinds.

Breha felt a jolt go through her chest as they teetered, blinking at each other in shock. They opened their mouths, and she expected them both to start wailing. But they didn’t. They just gurgled and made sounds at each other. Eventually, they both got back on their hands and knees and crawled in opposite directions a little more cautiously. Greta took turns playing with them, switching off when one got jealous, and when one was sleepy, brought them to Breha for a rest.

Sometimes it happened that they both tuckered out at once. Breha kept a rocker in front of her chair just in case. That way, she could tuck one of them in and bounce with her foot while snuggling the other in her arms. Occasionally, whoever was put in the rocker instead fussed, but never for long. They were mild, happy babies. They didn’t cry much, and were generally content so long as she or Bail were around.

That day, only Leia needed a mid-play nap. Luke was far too interested in his toys, and his sister had been more active. She generally was. Breha expected she’d be a terror when she started walking.

“I don’t know how you do it,” Bail said over her shoulder. His chin rested in the crook of her neck. His warm breath tickled, but she welcomed it. It felt good to have him looking down at their child with her. “Whenever I hold her, she wriggles like a worm.”

“Because she knows you’ll put her down if she makes enough fuss.” Breha shook her head. “I’m sorry, dear, but you’ve already doomed yourself. She’s figured out that daddy gives her whatever she wants.”

Her husband huffed and turned to scratch his beard over her neck. She snorted and tried to wriggle out of reach. He held her in place, dragging his scruff over the tender skin as she bit back her laughter, not wanting to bother the baby.

“I don’t see how that’s a bad thing. They should both have what they want.”

“Should they? Anything at all?” She looked at Greta, who’d been listening, and they both rolled their eyes at the ceiling. “I’ll remind you that you said that in a few years.”

She looked back to the girl laying in her arms. Leia’s cheeks had the faintest shading of brown. She was paler than Breha and Bail-- both children were-- but darker than Padme. Perhaps they’d inherit Anakin’s tan. Luke already had his eyes, and Breha thought she could see some similarities in the children’s faces to his already. They were too young for a real resemblance, but she’d already started guessing where they’d favor their biological parents.

Leia squirmed, trying to fight off sleep despite the fact that she was obviously tired. Her eyes kept falling shut and her breathing was getting even. She was stubborn, though, and wanted to keep playing. Breha refused to let her down, and eventually Leia settled, pressing her face into the breast of her mother’s dress. Her dark tufts of hair stuck up wildly, and Breha raised a hand to carefully pat them down.

Without meaning to, her mind drifted to Anakin. It often did when she was in the nursery. She was glad that she and Bail had gotten custody of the babies, but it made her ache to think of him being without them. It was for the best, and she loved her children dearly-- more, she thought, than she’d ever loved anything else. 

Perhaps _that’s_ what stung: knowing how precious and perfect they were, and also knowing Anakin had never met them.

“Have you thought about what I said?” Breha asked, lowering her voice so Greta wouldn’t overhear.

She didn’t need to elaborate. The way Bail sighed against her shoulder told her that he hadn’t forgotten the conversation.

“I have.”

“And?”

“I need more time to think.”

She nodded. She’d expected that, and it wasn’t as if they didn’t have it. There was still a standard week left before the group on Vrogas Vas loaded up for the journey to Alderaan. Bail had a few more days to think it over, which meant she also had a few to tip the scale.

“When I spoke to Obi-Wan last night, he said Anakin was doing better. Well, even. ‘Well’ was the word he used.”

Bail hummed. “I’ve been told that, too, but Obi-Wan is an incurable optimist.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Not necessarily.” He reached over her shoulder to stroke his thumb over Leia’s cheek. The little girl cooed, like she knew who was touching her. Bail did it again, and Breha thought her heart would burst. “I’m not trying to be cruel. You know that.”

She did. She didn’t think he had it in him to be, but he could be terribly stubborn. 

“Just promise me you haven’t already made up your mind against it.”

“I haven’t,” he assured, and she believed it.

She also believed that she could talk him around. In most everything that mattered, she could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anakin “I can handle Obi-Wan, but if a woman who doesn’t want to kill me looks at me and smiles I will-- and I can’t stress this enough-- pass out” Skywalker


	16. Temple Ruins, Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y’all! I hope you enjoy the update. It went through a few evolutions, but I decided I wanted the focus to be on relationship development and pumped the plot brakes a little. This is the last stop on our temple arc, so enjoy the slower pace. The upcoming arc is the final one (still not sure on exact chapter count), and I have some Plans for it, but for now: enjoy this!

By the ninth day of their stay, restoration was nowhere near complete, but the Temple was shored up enough to be liveable. As that had been the original goal, Master Wedge declared herself satisfied and ordered the work on it stalled.

Anakin and Obi-Wan didn’t argue, in part because it wasn't their place to. The Temple was Aadila's base of operations. Besides, she wasn't wrong. Everything that could be managed with the help of a single droid had already been done. Without more manpower, better supplies, and heavier equipment, the tasks still on the roster were beyond them. Rather than risk structural failure or crushing themselves by bungling the job, Master Wedge preferred to spend the last of their stay making return plans.

That, of course, took only a couple of minutes daily, leaving the group ample time to do what they wished. For his part, Obi-Wan split his between helping Aadila and visiting the shrine, while Anakin busied himself with exploring. While the younger man had no love for deserts, the ruins seemed to amuse him. He spent most of his free time picking through them with Milo, who’s quickly blooming attachment the younger man didn’t discourage.

Taking Milo and his speeder, Anakin conducted regular searches of the five or so miles buffering the perimeter. They were routine scouting missions, meant to plot points on a map they were making, and often the pair returned with sand-worn trinkets. At some point, it seemed the Temple was part of a larger complex. There weren’t obvious signs of other buildings, but there were clusters of artifacts so neatly spaced that Anakin guessed the outlands had once occupied. 

It was possible. The Temple was so deep in disrepair that Obi-Wan wouldn’t be surprised to learn that there’d once been more. There was no real telling what sandstorms had buried over the centuries. There could be dozens of hermit huts peppering the outlands, or paths lined with statues winding through the wastes. All conjecture, of course. There was no way to know without excavating, and even then most theories would be impossible to prove.

Still, the ideas snagged Anakin’s interest. That, or perhaps he was only humoring Milo. The young Tholothian was plainly invested. He came bouncing back after every excursion to show his master the latest version of his and Anakin’s map. His signature trilled with excitement as he tripped over himself to make guesses about what was under the sand. Master Wedge let him ramble, all the while smiling at Anakin gratefully.

“He’s good with him,” she said one afternoon, pleasantly surprised, as she and Obi-Wan lounged in the atrium.

Obi-Wan didn’t have to ask who. They were watching both of the young men. Milo and Anakin were using the atrium as a sparring ring. The Tholothian had his saber up and Anakin’s prosthetic was wreathed in current. It crackled, spitting so loudly that it broke Milo’s focus. 

“Don’t let his gloominess fool you,” Obi-Wan said. “He had a Padawan. I think Milo reminds him of her.” 

He kept his voice low, not wanting Anakin to hear. They hadn’t spoken about Ahsoka in months. He didn’t think his friend wanted to. She was a hole in his heart, and Obi-Wan didn’t want it to bleed.

There was a long pause before Aadila asked, “Where is she?”

“I don’t know. She’s been gone for some time. I hate to think--” He bit his tongue. “So, I don’t. I prefer to imagine her somewhere safe.”

He felt Aadila’s buoyant energy dip. When he looked over, he saw her staring at the pair. Her brow was pinched, her sunburned face scrunching up with sadness. He wondered if she was thinking of how close she’d come to losing Milo.

“Maybe she is,” Master Wedge said, more to herself than Obi-Wan. “The galaxy’s big, and there are a lot of places for a smart girl to hide.” Her eyes lingered on Anakin, and she made a quick decision. “He's decent. I’m sure he taught her well.”

He did, Obi-Wan thought. Not how he would’ve done, but Anakin and Ahsoka had been a good match. The Togruta wormed her way into the other’s heart quickly. For a being who claimed he didn’t want to teach, he’d done so happily. Prior to her disavowment, her future in the Order was bright. She was a fast learner, skilled warrior, and a friendly presence. It would’ve been an honor to see her remove her silka beads when she was Knighted.

“If anyone could’ve prepared her, it would’ve been him,” Obi-Wan said. “He loved her, and I don’t believe she could’ve had anyone better.”

He turned his attention back to the sparring ring in time to see Milo throw up a sloppy block. Anakin had no trouble skirting it. He made a jab for the boy’s ribs, who yelped and froze in panic. Anakin stopped short, and Obi-Wan felt annoyance flash through their bond. Only for a moment, though. It tamped down as Anakin withdrew to cut the flow of current from the powerpack.

“Take it easy, alright?” the younger man barked, likely trying to be comforting. “It’s part of my body. It doesn’t do anything I don’t want it to. I’m not really going to hurt you.”

To illustrate the point, he reached back out. Milo tensed, eyeing the arm with lingering suspicion. He let Anakin approach, however, and was rewarded with a tug to his silka beads. The boy lowered his eyes, embarrassed, and butted against Anakin’s wrist in apology. 

“I didn’t mean-- I know it’s your--” He pursed his lips. “I’m sorry. I just got nervous.”

Anakin shrugged the apology off before releasing the hang of beads. To diffuse the tension, he suggested that they stop for the day. It was getting late, and maybe Milo could show him how to use the cook stove. The last time Anakin tried, he burnt everyone’s dinner. Grateful for the redirect, Milo powered down his saber and clipped it to his belt before leading them off.

Obi-Wan watched them go, heart feeling squeezed when he caught a glimpse of Anakin rubbing the boy’s shoulders before rounding the corner.

* * *

"I'm surprised you can't read it," Anakin called from where he sat, a few steps below the shrine Obi-Wan had found.

The older man was on the landing, leaned back on his elbows under the low archway. Over the line of his body, Anakin could just make out the interior. The small room glowed dull red, like sunlight was refracting at slightly the wrong angle off the inlain crystals. From his friend's description, it sounded like the room was covered in them.

Anakin opted to take his word for it. He wasn't interested in shrines.

It wasn't that he thought the Temple was boring, it was just that he’d never been as fascinated by them as his old master. Obi-Wan loved every part of them, and whenever they visited new ones as master and apprentice, Anakin had to suffer through hours' long lectures. Obi-Wan would drag him along while he chatted with residents about the history and architecture of their home. Anakin could appreciate a place, though usually for its function. It took more than a few crystals to impress him.

The older man huffed a laugh. The cramped room he was in muffled it.

“Knowing a few modern galactic languages and a snatch of Old Alderaanian doesn’t make me a linguist.” He worked his feet apart, splaying his knees for better balance. “Though I appreciate your confidence in my education.”

Something thunked inside the shrine as Obi-Wan fought for space. He won out eventually, leaning back into a new position. Taking that as a cue that they wouldn't be leaving soon, the younger man resigned himself to getting comfortable.

"I thought Qui-Gon liked dead languages.”

He rocked against the stone step, searching for a better angle. He didn't find one. However he balanced his weight, a nest of nerves screamed and sparked so violently that his back and legs twitched. It was embarrassing, despite the fact that Obi-Wan wasn't watching. Anakin got onto his knees instead. He walked up a few steps on them, settling three down from the landing. He took the space between Obi-Wan's feet, locking hands around his ankles for balance. 

"He did,” the older man said, not seeming to notice the contact. Anakin chalked that up to his mind being occupied. “But his lessons in them weren't engaging. Even if he'd known this one, and I doubt it, I likely wouldn't have retained much."

“What’s with the holos, then? If you don't know what it says, I don't really don't see the point of this."

By 'this', he meant the half hour and counting the older man had spent contorting himself inside of the shrine. He hadn't come as a pilgrim. He was acting more like a tourist, taking holo after holo with a datapad. Master Wedge loaned him one after learning his had burned with their ship. Since none of his files or books were on it, it hadn’t yet seen much use. Now, though, it was glued to his hand. Every few seconds, a series of shutters went off from its cam.

Flickering light overexposed the wall and crevices, drawing Anakin's attention often to the statue. In repeating slivers of seconds, he made a study of its face. At least, what was left of it. It was hard to tell from the angle and distance whether the features had eroded naturally or been chiseled off. It made him think of ritual destruction and gave him a queasy feeling. He didn’t think he liked who he was looking at.

"The Queen has an extensive library." Obi-Wan's voice cut through the thought. "Whenever there's time, I thought I'd run a search through her files. There might be something there about the script, but if not, Senator Organa might be of some help."

"Is _he_ a linguist?"

If the older man registered the sarcasm, he ignored it.

"Not professionally, but he's a skilled hobbyist. If nothing else, he may be able to identify the family, which on its own is more than I can do."

Anakin felt the need to scuff Bail's reputation. _How hard can be_ , he thought about saying, _if an amateur can do it?_ Obi-Wan wouldn't appreciate it, though. It might actually annoy him, and Anakin didn’t want to be asked to leave. The stairwell leading up to the shrine was peaceful. Heat bored through the porous walls, making the still air stuffy, but it was pleasant otherwise, and so was Obi-Wan's company. 

The man's energy swirled lazily, stray thoughts and emotions skating through their bond totally unguarded. Obi-Wan was so sunk in the rhythm of snapping holos that his brain was leaking. Anakin leaned into it, testing the give of his old master's mind. It bloomed open, all pliant, welcoming, and warm. The dusky pink spill of Obi-Wan's awareness curled around him. It invited a deep dive. Anakin didn't take it. He'd pushed a lot recently, and didn't want to sprain anything.

Hanging back, he waded in the shallows of Obi-Wan's thoughts, looking in on them as the other worked. It was mostly surface disturbance: the tickle of sweat, the uncomfortable floor, an occasional blips of annoyance when the datapad froze. Then, something else: the sense of being swallowed by an angry, red throat, and-- _Throat_. Obi-Wan snagged there. 

The pink swarming him tinged darker. He thought of the dream from the night before, then shooed Anakin out. Anakin let himself be pushed, but made a petulant sound. Obi-Wan laughed at it.

"It's rude to pry."

"Wasn't prying," he said, which was true. "You let me in."

Obi-Wan considered that as he took another series of holos. The space between them prickled with something Anakin couldn't name, but it was easy enough to guess that his old master was uncomfortable.

"What do you think it says?” Anakin asked to distract him. “The writing. Can you guess?"

Obi-Wan laughed again. "That isn't how translation works.”

"I'm not asking you to present your findings to the Council." He thumped Obi-Wan's ankle joints. "I just want an estimation. I'm bored."

"Bored," Obi-Wan repeated, sounding mildly offended. "There were other things to do, you realize. You could've gone riding with Milo again. The poor boy was begging you to."

"I know. But when I said I'd rather do that, you sulked until I changed my mind."

The pattern of flashes and clicks inside the shrine dropped off. Through his grip on the other's ankles, Anakin felt his old master shift. He bristled in the Force, less irritated than embarrassed.

"I did not."

The denial came quick but burned out even quicker. Anakin could feel his friend's mind working backwards. Obi-Wan combed over the morning for evidence that Anakin was exaggerating. He must've not liked what he found, because he didn’t present it.

"You did," Anakin insisted, "and I gave in, and now you owe me, so pay up." He rubbed the back of Obi-Wan’s ankle, massaging the muscles at the base of the tendon. The man didn't kick him off. “Come on. Just take a stab.”

“Will you stop pestering me if I do?”

“Probably.”

“Fine, then. Give me a moment.”

The older man laid flat on his back and took a dozen more holos, cam shuttering insistently as he circled the shrine's upper curve. When he was finished, he reached out and smacked the datapad onto the landing. He dragged himself out, ducking under the low archway and blinking from the sudden shift of light. As he adjusted, he combed his fingers through his hair, slicking his bangs back. His forehead and cheeks were flushed from the heat and-- something else.

When Obi-Wan glanced down to take in his position, that _something_ flared white hot. His end of their bond glitched, fizzling like dead air at the sight of Anakin between his knees. The sound stretched out for seconds, breaking only when Obi-Wan forced himself to clear his throat and look away. Even as he reached for the datapad, though, Anakin could feel the other’s brain fritzing.

“Bear in mind, this is all conjecture.” 

His voice didn't betray him. It was calm, and his slight breathiness could've just been from the heat. The stairwell was an oven. Both of them were sweating.

"Whatever you say."

"I very much doubt that.”

Obi-Wan tapped the datapad's screen and recalled the file of holos. He scrolled back to the top before flipping the device around. He seemed to expect Anakin to take it. The younger man didn't. He kept his hands on Obi-Wan's ankle and stared up. Moments later, the other sighed.

"If you insist."

Anakin hadn't insisted on anything. He'd just refused to cooperate, but he didn't bother pointing out the difference. He was getting what he wanted, regardless, which was Obi-Wan holding the device and scrolling through the holos for him while he spoke. 

"You'll notice," he began, like this was the start of a lecture, "that the script flows from the statue's base. From there, it wraps the room right up to the oculus, where it finishes in a circle around the setting."

"Is that typical?" Anakin asked, eyes roaming the screen. The first dozen were long and wide shots of the space taken fractions of degrees apart. They nearly made a panorama. He studied them, bringing himself up to speed.

"I've never seen one quite like this, but it doesn’t strike me as strange. The writing is odd, of course. I can’t guess where it’s from. I'd say it was native, but nothing is here."

"Could be from the Outer Rim, or something that slithered out of Wild Space."

"Possibly. We won't even have a chance of knowing until Alderaan, though." 

He swiped through the next few quickly, finishing the general sweep. Next came a set more focused on the script. Obi-Wan worked through them slowly, giving Anakin time to study the lettering. What he could make out of it, anyway. The ink was faded.

"When I first saw the writing, I thought it might be a mantra. It's not uncommon to find them incorporated into a shrine's art. If that _is_ what we're looking at, though, it's terribly long."

Anakin agreed. He couldn't identify a place where the pattern started over. If it was a mantra, he'd have expected repeating sets. That wasn't the case, though. A few scattered words looked similar, but most of the text didn’t. 

"It could be a prayer instead," the older man continued. "Or a lecture. That would explain the length. I'm sure the master, whoever they were, gave several good lessons. Perhaps the local ascetics wanted one commemorated."

That was possible, Anakin supposed, but he couldn't see the sense. "A holocron would've been easier." 

He squinted and leaned in, almost brushing the screen with his nose to get a better look. The shift brought him deep between Obi-Wan's thighs, and he could feel the man aching to close them. Not to shut Anakin out, necessarily. Just to close. Maybe to trap him there. Obi-Wan was a warm, wanting pit in the Force, but what he wanted exactly was unclear.

Anakin tried not to think about it. At least, for the moment. He was mildly interested in the text. The hum of the other's uncertain desire made his tongue ache, but he wasn't as impatient as his old master liked to think.

"I'm sure there was one.” Obi-Wan shifted, playing first with the idea of scooting back, then moving closer. Ultimately, he decided against both and just wriggled. "This is art. There would've been a formal copy for the library."

Library. Right. "Wonder where that is."

"The sublevel, I assume. Though even after we excavate it, the language will be an issue."

Hopefully by the time they'd excavated though, Obi-Wan would've learned something. Preferably from the _Queen’s_ library instead of her husband. Anakin pictured it staffed with beings as old as Jocasta Nu. 

He let the rest of Obi-Wan's talk run uninterrupted. The older man scrolled through the last dozen holos, pointing out details. None of it was very specific. It couldn't be, but Anakin thought his guesses were decent anyway. It was better than sitting in silence, trying to rope the man into a conversation while he grunted, barely paying attention. Obi-Wan was impossible to drag away from work. He had to be met on the ground.

"See?" Anakin said when the other flipped the datapad around to close off the file and power it down. "That wasn't so bad."

"It also wasn't overly enlightening."

Anakin rolled his eyes. "You weren't applying for funding. For what it's worth, though, I thought it was interesting."

Obi-Wan sat the datapad aside before looking back at him.

"I'm afraid that's only because you don't often pay very good attention."

It was probably meant to be self-deprecating more than anything, a dig at his own hypothesis. Anakin still frowned. He wasn't stupid, but the way Obi-Wan teased made him wonder if the older man believed that. 

"I pay a lot of attention, actually," he bit back before he could think the implication through. "You'd be surprised how much I notice."

Obi-Wan's attention slanted almost imperceptibly. If Anakin wasn't so close, he would've missed it. The heat rolling from the other's core sucked his attention inward, though. It sucked the rest of him in, too. Having to tilt his head back to meet Obi-Wan's eyes, he realized that at some point he'd crept even closer. He couldn't remember when. 

"Would I?" the other man asked, noticing seconds after Anakin did that the space between them had shrunk. The half smile his mouth curved into looked strained. "I don't think I know what you mean."

That wasn't true. Obi-Wan's awareness was a vise. Anakin could feel it kicking up shame after every dream. His old master was a pitifully aware ball of want that he didn’t know what to do or how to vent it. He was stewing, seemingly intent on punishing himself for the feeling, though if Anakin touched him, he allowed it.

He tried not to abuse that. Obi-Wan's willingness was dangerously thin. The part of him that made decisions-- the part that mattered-- was conflicted. The rest was just getting kicked around by his hindbrain. It was hard to know which impulses he wanted to act on.

"No?" he asked, then hummed like it didn't matter. "Then maybe it's nothing."

He left the implication that he wanted Obi-Wan to _admit_ dangling between them. The older man didn't even bat at it.

"Maybe it's not.”

"How long?" Obi-Wan asked so many hours later that Anakin didn’t know what he was talking about.

He made a questioning noise and turned his head on the pillow, facing the other out of habit. It didn't help. Their room was dark, and all he could see of his friend was the blacker smear of his body. The light was out, and barely any from the moon came through the window.

“How long what?”

“How long have you known?”

Anakin tried cocking his head, but just ended up dragging his cheek over the pillow.

“Known what?”

The older man hesitated. Anakin felt him go rigid. He was on his back, probably staring at the ceiling. Anakin didn’t get the sense that the other was looking at him. Actually, he got the opposite.

“The dreams,” he said eventually, voice as stiff as his energy felt. The usually rosy swirl was chilly and drained. His presence in the Force was as pale as if he'd lost half a gallon of blood. “That’s what you meant earlier. What you'd noticed."

It wasn’t a question. He’d obviously been thinking about it, picking apart their interactions over the last few weeks. Anakin wondered if that’s why he’d been quiet for so much of the day. After leaving the shrine, Obi-Wan hadn’t spoken much. Not to him, or Wedge’s team when they met back up. He was distracted, almost distant, even at dinner. Anakin hadn’t thought about what it meant. He’d guessed the man was tired. That had obviously been wrong.

Anakin worked an arm out from under his pillow and let it come to rest on the mat between them. When it laid flat, his pinky barely brushed Obi-Wan’s arm. It was more space than the other usually left between them. The older man had gotten comfortable pressing close in bed. Most nights, he didn’t even wait to fall asleep. Now, though, he was unsure. Uncomfortable. Maybe even afraid.

Anakin swallowed, feeling the hot lick of guilt. 

He shouldn’t have said anything, shouldn’t have given Obi-Wan something to worry about. But he had, and his old master hadn’t guessed wrong. Anakin didn’t want to lie. Obi-Wan would know and infer the wrong thing from it.

“A few weeks.”

Anakin thought back to the first time he’d scented the dream. They’d been en route to Vrogas Vas. Obi-Wan was napping, leaving Anakin tinkering at his bench. It was easy work, something he didn’t need to concentrate on, and he’d let his mind wander around the ship. It snagged on his friend’s sleepy energy, and he let himself be lulled by it. Then it’d spiked, turned all molten and needy, and he’d fumbled his tool from the shock.

Obi-Wan huffed. It wasn’t a laugh so much as a signal of onsetting panic. Anakin could feel his old master winding tight. 

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t want to embarrass you.”

“No? What changed your mind?”

Anakin paused. He didn’t want to say that he’d only hinted at it because his pride was sore. It made him sound-- well, like himself. He didn’t always enjoy that.

“You were embarrassed anyway,” he said instead, which was true. Obi-Wan’s humiliation had been turning the air to ash. It was strange. Anakin had never associated embarrassment with Obi-Wan. It was a busted cog that threw the entire machine out of alignment.

The other man felt misaligned now. He freely bled shame and confusion. Anakin could almost hear him wondering what to say, or if he could say anything. Not liking it, the younger man tried to relieve the tension. Stretching out his fingers, he brushed against Obi-Wan’s arm. He wanted the touch to be reassuring. It just made his old master flinch. Anakin’s throat felt blocked as it rolled through him. 

He didn’t snatch the hand away, and eventually the other settled. Obi-Wan’s muscles slacked, which Anakin rewarded by digging his thumb in. He was glad it was so dark. He didn’t want to know how Obi-Wan looked.

The older man swallowed dryly before speaking again.

“Whenever we--” He broke off, made a small noise, redirected. “I’ve never considered it, and I wouldn’t. Your trust means a great deal to me, and I hope you know I wouldn’t abuse it.” He was dancing around the sore spot, but Anakin could guess that Obi-Wan was thinking about all the beds and baths they’d shared. How often his hands had been allowed _anywhere_. “But, if you’re uncomfortable--”

“I’m not,” he interrupted, sparing the other some trouble. He sent a pulse of reassurance through their bond. “It doesn’t bother me.”

There was a long pause, and the other man deflated somewhat, tension snapping under the weight of Anakin’s mental press. He still felt wary, but he leaned into the comfort flowing through their bond.

“Oh.”

Anakin waited for him to say more, and sighed when he didn’t. “Are you going to ask me why?”

Silence stretched. The only thing that broke it was the sound of Obi-Wan rustling against the mat. He squirmed in the darkness, messily cut hair scratching his pillow. For the first time since they’d started talking, Anakin felt the man _looking_ at him. It was too dark to see, but the other’s inky shadow tilted in Anakin’s direction. The younger man could feel the weight of his regard.

“I don’t think,” the man began, then bit the words off. 

Anakin scooted in, following the airy puff of his breath. He wrapped the hand playing with Obi-Wan’s arm into a tight grip, pinning him in place. He didn’t trust his old master not to scramble away. He dragged closer, pressing up on his other arm to clear Obi-Wan’s shoulder, and took a guess at where his face would be. He knew he’d found it when he felt warm breath skitter over his chin. It was an anxious, broken pattern.

“You’re panicking.”

“I’m not,” the other denied, but the words were thready, stretched thin by lingering dread. The pleasant sweetness of Obi-Wan’s want was soured by the fear of being toyed with.

“You are. Relax. I’m not hurting you.”

Not wanting to give Obi-Wan a chance to say _not yet_ , he tilted his head to knock their noses. He came in too hot and it was clumsy, made him feel nineteen again, but Obi-Wan made a sound like he’d been stabbed. It was a heady, slick noise that made Anakin aware of how warm he was and drew his attention to Obi-Wan’s squirming. The other man was moving, not to get away, just to vent. Noticing tore a groan from his chest. It reminded him of other nights, other bodies and their weaknesses. He wondered how it’d feel to find Obi-Wan’s and pick him apart.

He sucked a breath at the thought and rubbed their noses again, feeling Obi-Wan tilt into the touch. His chin turned up, bringing his mouth close enough for Anakin to lick. He didn’t. It would’ve been filthy, and Obi-Wan was afraid. What he wanted was tangled up with what he worried Anakin would do if he asked for it. His old master’s mind was a mess.

“Relax,” he said again, dragging his nose over Obi-Wan’s cheek. 

The man turned how Anakin wanted, pliant and stunned. The arm he was gripping moved, and seconds later, Anakin heard the thunk of knuckles on metal. Obi-Wan found his prosthetic and rubbed against it, not sure what to do with his hands.

“It’s late,” Anakin said. "Do you want to sleep?"

Obi-Wan nodded, both disappointed and relieved to be given an out. "Please. I'm sorry."

"Don’t be.” Anakin pulled away slowly, settling back onto his own pillow. Obi-Wan made a choked off sound and shifted like he wanted to follow, but didn’t. "You _should_ ask me sometime, though."

Obi-Wan jerked his head again, maybe nodding.

Anakin decided to leave it alone, and fell asleep gripping his arm.

* * *

Their last few days on-world were eaten up by sandstorms that blew in from the wastes over the eastern dunes. They raged for hours at a time, forcing the group to barricade, only sneaking out of their rooms between flare ups for food. It was miserable, dangerous weather that made the Temple shudder. Through their blocked off window, Obi-Wan could hear the desert scream. It made him anxious, and when he slept, it darkened all of his dreams. 

He couldn’t help but worry that the storms would bury them, among other things.

The first morning, still reeling from the kiss Anakin had teased, Obi-Wan worried that being shut up together would be uncomfortable. He hadn't tried sneaking away to hole up in another room, however. It would've been cowardly, and a little ungrateful. 

Boldness aside, the younger man had been kind. He hadn't reacted badly or assumed what Obi-Wan feared. Not outwardly, at least. What exactly Anakin was thinking was difficult to guess. He dissembled neatly.

He had to trust, then, that Anakin wasn’t harboring any ill will. That wasn't worrisome on its face. The younger man had earned more of it than Obi-Wan could've guessed months ago. Trusting him with this specifically, though, made the older man’s stomach ache. He didn't like having a nerve exposed, especially not when Anakin kept his nails close. The younger man hadn’t tried anything, but Obi-Wan could feel him thinking.

It simmered through their bond, warming their room through the storm. Except for when they slept, Anakin kept his hands to himself. He considered not, though, and every few hours the shock of that scattered Obi-Wan’s thoughts. He’d be reading, meditating, or stretching to stave off stiffness when the other’s stray thoughts came tripping through. He’d get a hazy flash of hands on his back or hips, pinching bruises, or-- and it made him dizzy-- locking up in his hair. 

That last was a persistent, needling interest. Anakin’s mind kept circling back to it. Obi-Wan wondered if it was an overlap from the dream, if the younger man _wanted_ \-- but he never let the idea fully play out. In truth, he had no idea what Anakin wanted. His flaring interest could’ve meant a dozen things, very few of them requiring genuine desire. They were isolated, and perhaps he only saw an opportunity. 

He didn’t know for certain because he still hadn’t asked. He hadn’t been able to gather up the nerve, and knew better than to hope that Anakin would tell him before that. He wouldn’t; not after how he’d ended things. He hadn’t pressed his advantage, and Obi-Wan didn’t expect him to now. Regardless of his motivations, Anakin had decided it was worth waiting the other out. 

The fact was working Obi-Wan’s gut into knots. 

He didn’t know what Anakin needed, or what he himself did. He didn’t know what he should ask for, or if he could. He hadn’t before, not really. He’d been younger once, of course, and Padawans all had their toothless experiments. He remembered a handful of kisses in the dormitory, and one with Satine. The way Anakin had slotted in was familiar. Obi-Wan remembered the thrill of it, and it made his throat ache. The warm puff of Anakin’s breath against his mouth sank the room around them in fog. The other could’ve taken what he wanted. Obi-Wan almost wished he had.

Working through the guilt afterward would’ve been easier than getting himself out of the corner Anakin had him backed into.

* * *

Late the second afternoon, the storms broke long enough for their group to do more than scurry for food. Master Wedge went to the comm station and hailed Alderaan, warning Bail that they likely wouldn’t be taking off soon. While she and the senator reworked the flight plan, Milo and the Nautolans reinforced the Temple's temporary shutters. The droid went with them, carrying an armload of reinforcement spikes, leaving Anakin and Obi-Wan to clear the kitchen. 

It didn't take long. After cutting power to the cookstove and toweling off the plates as best they could, Anakin sighed and ran a hand through his grimy hair.

"I'm disgusting. We should wash up while there’s a chance.”

Obi-Wan agreed. After snatching up their canteens, he followed Anakin to the temporary sonic. Their droid had installed the stall in a corner of the same half collapsed hall as the med station. It was functional enough, though Obi-Wan hoped they'd eventually have something better. The station was hardly large enough to turn around in.

He and Anakin took turns cramming into the tiny stall. The younger man went first, dusting off with remarkable speed. During his turn, Obi-Wan tried to match it, though he couldn’t resist taking a few extra minutes. The cell was quiet, and while sonics weren’t his preference, any sort of shower was better than none. While the vibrations shook him clean, Obi-Wan mimed scrubbing, imagining the drag of a cloth over his belly. 

Just over the labored hum of the sonic, Obi-Wan could hear Anakin rifling through something. Medical bins clattered, and his bare metal feet scraped the tiling. It sounded like he was pacing between containers.

"I hope you asked Leta’s permission to go through her things," the older man called over the noise.

Anakin muttered something Obi-Wan didn't catch, but assumed it amounted to a ‘no’. His former apprentice rarely asked permission for anything. 

Sighing, cut the unit’s power and backed out into the main room to investigate. He shivered from exposure and cupped a hand over his groin, affording himself some modesty. Not that it mattered. Anakin didn’t so much as glance up from his destructive search. Only half dressed himself, the younger man was bent and digging, tossing whatever was in his way onto the floor.

His chest was bare still, pants up but unfastened, their flaps spread to reveal the plunge of his lower belly. Golden hair trailed it, dusting taut muscle and ending in a thatch. Obi-Wan swallowed, trying to remember where he'd shucked his own clothes off. 

“You’re making a mess.”

In profile, he saw Anakin’s mouth turn down.

“I wouldn’t have to if Leta labeled anything.” His arm sank into the elbow, rustling contents. “Unbelievable. The medbay is the size of _maybe_ two sonic stalls, and it's still impossible to find anything.”

“What are you looking for?” He took a few steps closer to peer down into the bin. It was a clutter of supplies he didn’t recognize. Still, he made the offer. “Perhaps I could help.”

Anakin’s attention turned and, to Obi-Wan’s horror, dragged up. His eyes made a deliberate crawl from chest to feet, lingering for a second too long on Obi-Wan’s cupped hand. The older man stiffened, feeling a blush flare on his chest.

“One handed?” The other smirked, his expression as crooked as a gutting hook. Obi-Wan felt the heat overtake his throat. “You wouldn’t be much help, unless you wanted to put something down first. Why don’t you just worry about getting dressed?”

The younger man jerked his head toward the exam cot. Obi-Wan followed, seeing his clothes and boots piled there. They weren’t folded, but they were gathered and resting by Anakin’s shirt. His friend must’ve it up while he showered. It was-- thoughtful. Strangely so, but he didn’t allow himself to wonder about it. As soon as Anakin was distracted by the bin again, Obi-Wan hurried to them.

“You didn’t tell me what you’re looking for,” the older man said, snatching up his pants first. He didn’t uncup his hand until the fabric was in front of him. 

“Stimpaks.”

“What for? Your burns?” Obi-Wan frowned as he stepped into the legs. “I thought you’d decided to continue with the suppressant.”

“I did, but the IV takes time, which we haven’t had since the storm started.” As if on cue, a careless shift made his lower back spasm. Exposed muscles twitched, tugging violently at his scar tissue. Anakin cussed through his teeth before continuing. “And both of our medics are busy, so I’m out of options."

Obi-Wan’s frown deepened. Stimpaks were good in a pinch; passable, but not ideal. The effects would wear off even more quickly than the suppressant Anakin had been allowing Leta to dose him with. Not for the first time since making planetfall, Obi-Wan wished the nerve cream had been saved. Though the younger man was ploughing through it, the pain was clearly edging towards overwhelming.

“You’ll speak to Bail when we arrive?” he asked, fastening his pants and toeing into his boots. He didn’t bother to lace them. “I’m sure one of his medical staff can track down more cream. I’d rather you not have to do this.”

“You and me, both.”

That wasn’t an answer, but Obi-Wan didn’t press. His friend’s breathing was ragged from pain. Obi-Wan could see his muscles still trying to jump, irritating scarring which had gone red and inflamed. Obi-Wan wanted to soothe it, take the heat out of Anakin’s skin. His hands ached to do something. But, there wasn’t anything _to_ do, really, other than let his friend make a mess.

He finished dressing silence, not wanting to distract the other. As he was tugging the wrinkles from his shirt, the effort paid off. The younger man gave a huff and sat back on his heels, dragging a fistful of stimpaks from deep in the bin.

“Knew I’d seen some,” he muttered, getting to his feet. 

He took a count of the stimpaks, gave a thought, then deposited all but two onto his shirt. For later, Obi-Wan assumed, in case the storm lasted several more days, though Obi-Wan hoped that wouldn’t be the case.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asked, feeling foolish, as he was certain there wasn’t.

“Actually,” Anakin said, “I was going to ask if you could stick me.” He held the stimpaks out, not waiting for Obi-Wan to confirm. “I don’t have the best view of where I need them to go, and if they hit dead tissue it’s a waste.” He pressed the stimpaks closer. “If you don’t mind.”

Obi-Wan plucked them from his palm. “I don’t, but--”

“What?” Anakin interrupted, tone joking, as he tugged his open pants down. “It’s just a stimpak. You don’t need a degree. How many have you used on yourself?”

“A hundred, at least.”

“Then don’t worry.” 

When the fabric scraped over his ass, the younger man’s face pinched. Pain rocketed through their bond before he could block it. Obi-Wan pretended not to notice as Anakin righted his expression and turned toward the examination cot. He laid his hands flat on it and braced wide. The pose flexed his shoulders, golden dark but for the pale splatter scarring. Obi-Wan thought of all the times Anakin had let him finger it.

“Well,” the older man said, looking between the stimpaks and the ruin of Anakin’s ass, “if you’re sure.”

“I am.” A pause, then: “Please. It’s getting uncomfortable.”

Obi-Wan suspected it was getting more than that. He felt the echo of Anakin’s pain now and then. The other was usually careful to section his hurt off, but when he couldn’t, it tore through their bond like fire.

Tucking one of the stimpaks into his pocket, Obi-Wan uncapped the other. He let it fall to the floor, promising to clean up later, before moving into position. Anakin tensed, and Obi-Wan could sense the low simmer of his nerves. None of them were pointed. It was a general medical anxiety, which the older man wasn’t surprised by.

 _Live tissue_ , Obi-Wan reminded himself. That was potentially troublesome, and he agreed that Anakin couldn’t have found it himself. Given the damage to his back, the other couldn’t have craned how he’d need to see it. 

Most of the flesh was in craters from lava splatter, some shallow and some inches deep. The burns that fanned out from each epicenter left much of the surrounding skin puckered and tight. There were one or two places on each swell that looked promising, but before wasting the medication, Obi-Wan needed to be sure.

“May I touch you first?” He adjusted his hold on the stimpak, freeing up a few fingers. “It would help, but if you think it’d hurt too terribly--”

“It’s going to hurt anyway.”

Obi-Wan didn’t argue the point. Instead, he placed his free hand on Anakin’s side. He avoided the damage there, wanting a painless point of contact for the other to focus on while he worked.

“Try to relax.”

The younger man snorted and started to ask something. Before he could, Obi-Wan prodded a round of flesh. Whatever Anakin meant to say trailed off in a stuttering hiss. His fingers squealed as they curled on the table, body going rigid. Obi-Wan hushed him and petted his ribs, testing for scar tissue. He didn’t find any. The swath was still supple. That didn’t prevent it from paining the younger man, though. Obi-Wan assumed that was the fault of the deep, angry cavity beside it.

“Can you use it?” Anakin grunted.

“I believe so.” He thumbed it again, earning a pitiful moan. “Yes,” he corrected. “It’ll do. Do you need a moment?”

Anakin shook his head. “Just get it over with.” His hands made claws on the table. “Storm’s picking back up. Don’t want to get stuck like this.”

Obi-Wan knew it was. He could hear it scraping the walls. That didn’t mean he liked the idea of rushing, though. He would’ve preferred to take more time, perhaps let Anakin lay down first. But the other had made his decision.

He placed the syringe against Anakin’s skin and gave a count. He felt the other tensing as the numbers worked down. When it sank into place, sparking damaged nerves, his friend drew taut and shrieked. Obi-Wan muttered an apology and depressed the plunger, working a hand along the other’s ribs. He petted as Anakin cussed, drawing the syringe out as soon as he was finished. The boy hissed as he did, head lolling between his shoulders. 

“Can you manage another?”

Anakin gave a nod. Not wanting to drag things out, Obi-Wan set to work immediately. He prodded the opposite swell for another suitable spot. Unfortunately, it took more time. The burns and splatters were more concentrated there, and the first two promising spots were knotted underneath. By the time he found a giving patch, Anakin was trembling. Sweat slicked his back and every brush of fingers made him whimper. His injuries were bright and inflamed, and Obi-Wan felt guilty.

“Nearly finished,” he promised, and forewent a countdown. Anakin bleated a cuss and called him a filthy name. “Easy,” he cooed in response. “A moment longer.”

He tossed the stimpak aside when it was empty. Anakin shuddered, cursing colorfully. Obi-Wan let him. He rubbed the other’s ribs, using the other hand to tug his pants up. When they were in place, he reached around and fastened them before stepping back to give the man room to breath. Hands on his hips, he listened to the other reign in his breathing as the medication took effect.

It took less than a minute, which was fortunate. The wind outside was whipping into a howl. It made the lights overhead flicker, threatening to blow out. Anakin ignored it, taking deep, shaking breaths. He pushed upright and padded his weight, testing his limit. After a moment he sighed his relief and turned to face Obi-Wan. His eyes were red and irritated, but his expression was clear.

“Better?” Obi-Wan asked.

He nodded. “Thank you.”

For a moment, he looked like he wanted to say something else. His lip caught between his teeth and he shifted forward, attention darting between Obi-Wan’s eyes and mouth. He tongued the point of one tooth and seconds later, an unguarded intention tripped through their bond. Obi-Wan blinked, surprised by it, and tried picking it apart. It was warm. Anakin was thinking of _giving_ something.

Chest cinching with nerves, Obi-Wan took a step back. The corners of Anakin’s eyes creased and he sighed, withdrawing the offer.

* * *

Four nights after they started, the storms reached a peak that Anakin knew meant the final break was coming. He knew sandstorms intimately, and expected by sometime the next day they’d be able to leave.

He was ready to. He hated being trapped in the desert. He wanted to see Del again. He wanted real food, a hot shower, and a softer bed. Mixed feelings about the senator aside, Anakin knew his palace would be comfortable.

What he wasn't looking forward to was seeing Bail and Obi-Wan paw at each other in person. The thought made his stomach ache. Bail was handsome, charming, and wealthy; if Obi-Wan wanted something, Bail could give it. His old master insisted they were just friends, but Anakin wasn't sure.

Even if that was true, Bail could easily change it.

He tried not to think about it too much. It made him angry, and he didn't want to be. He wanted-- well, he wasn't really sure. He hadn't taken the time to pick it apart. He'd been focused on trying to identify what rolled off Obi-Wan. The man's interest was a mess, layered with confusion and wariness. There was too much going on in it for Anakin to figure out anything else. 

What he did know was that he wanted to lean into it before Bail snatched his master out from under him. That was hard to swing, though, when Obi-Wan was determined to pretend the other night never happened.

"I know what you're doing," Anakin muttered, watching Obi-Wan from his place on their mat.

The older man was across from where he knelt, leaned on the wall with his knees bent to make a prop for his datapad. Hours earlier, the storm had knocked the Temple's power grid out, so the only light was the glow of the screen. It stripped all the color out of the other's sunburn and freckles and cast heavy shadows along his beard. It made Obi-Wan look like a ghost sewn into one of the old heritage tapestries.

"I should hope so," he said, eyes on the screen. "I haven't seen you try in a while, but I assumed you hadn't forgotten how to read."

Anakin snorted. "That's not what I meant, and you know it."

"I'm sure that I don't."

"Don't play stupid, master. You can't pull it off."

The older man stiffened at the title. The corners of his mouth twitched, and it would've read as annoyance if it weren't for the bloom of warmth that overtook Obi-Wan's signature.

"You don't have to call me that," he said instead of addressing what Anakin wanted him to.

If he thought Anakin hadn't been prepared for that, he was mistaken. The younger man had rehearsed the conversation for most of the day. He'd run over what he wanted to say and guessed Obi-Wan's responses. He’d been troubleshooting since just after breakfast.

"You like it when I do."

Obi-Wan went even stiffer and his attention on the file flagged. He didn't look away, but Anakin sensed him losing focus. 

"That would be inappropriate."

"Maybe, but it doesn't change the fact." 

Moving quickly, he rocked onto his knees and reached for the datapad. He snatched it from Obi-Wan's hands before the man could stop him. 

"Give it back," Obi-Wan said, but the demand lacked punch. Anakin denied it.

"Later."

The older man's brow furrowed and he leaned forward, trying to grab it. "I mean it."

"So do I."

He let the other get close enough to graze the device before jerking it backward, out of his reach. Obi-Wan frowned, the expression familiar. Anakin had seen it dozens of times. His old master thought he was being childish. Well, what did it matter?

He laid the datapad behind him, leaving the file open to keep the minimal light. The glow was too dim to really be helpful, but it at least allowed him to focus on the other's face. Which, he noted, was currently drawn. Obi-Wan didn't look happy. Actually, he looked like he was going to fight. Half up on his knees, his attention shifted between his friend and the datapad. He tongued the seam of his lips, considering diving for it. Ultimately, though, he decided against it.

"Fine." The word was terse. Obi-Wan settled into a kneel, not bothering to relax against the wall. "Something's obviously troubling you. May I know what this is about, or do you plan on being cryptic for the rest of the night?"

"You know what it's about. You put a pin in it a few days ago, or are you trying to tell me you forgot?"

It was too dark to see if Obi-Wan flushed, but he swallowed hard, so Anakin imagined it that he did.

"I don't--" he tried after a heavy pause.

"Remember what I said about playing dumb?"

The older man swallowed again, throat working anxiously. His eyes turned down and one of his hands started fussing with his sleeve. Anakin could hear his nails picking at the threads. It was an old habit, but Anakin still thought of it as out of place.

"I'm not sure what you want me to say. I-- no, I haven't forgotten."

Anakin knew that. Obi-Wan's end of their bond had been frazzled ever since: a twisted up feed of emotion and scattered thoughts. All his wants had been shoved to the forefront, but so had his anxiety. He didn't seem to trust Anakin with either. The fact would've stung if Obi-Wan wasn't so obviously bent out of shape.

Anakin wasn't unsympathetic. He remembered how it felt. At the start of his relationship with Padme, he'd been the same. She was confident and experienced, and what she wanted didn't scare her. How easily she asked for it made him feel squeamish. She'd had to warm him up, teach him to take and let things be taken, which was thrilling once it stopped being terrifying. Until then, she'd been gentle, and he was grateful, still was. She'd been good, and it made him think that maybe he could be too.

"Ok," he said, dialing down slightly. He laid his palms flat on the floor, in view and nonthreatening. "Why haven't you said anything?"

Obi-Wan shook his head. "Can't you guess?"

He didn't want to. He wanted Obi-Wan to be straightforward. “I could, but I’m not going to. You've got to give me something."

The older man grimaced, but didn’t look surprised. It took a long moment for him to respond. For a while, Anakin didn't think he would. The other man still hadn’t looked at him. He’d also sectioned off their bond, guarding his mind so tightly Anakin couldn’t breach it. The floral energy that usually ringed him was bruised and sour. He looked cornered. Anakin wondered if he should let it go.

After what felt like minutes, Obi-Wan cleared his throat. He wet his lips and took a breath, coming to a decision.

"I'm old," he began. His voice was thin and shaking, and it was ridiculous, but before Anakin could disagree: "And I've never, I haven't, with anyone. I’m not--” He gnawed the inside of his cheek, visibly embarrassed, but didn’t give Anakin time to address that either. “And we _fought_. You were hurt, and it’s--”

“Stop,” Anakin finally interrupted. 

It came out harsher than he meant it, but he didn’t like where he assumed the other was going. He didn’t like the prickle at the base of this throat, either. It was a sore subject, and he’d have rather left it alone. But if Obi-Wan was determined to drag it up:

“Not everything in the galaxy is your fault.” He forced his voice to stay level. “You didn’t make me do anything.” He paused, jaw working as he thought. When he spoke again, the words were stiff. “There are a lot of things I could’ve done differently. And I know it doesn’t matter that I know that. It doesn’t change anything. But it isn’t your fault. None of it is. No one blames _you_.”

Anakin had in the beginning, when he was sick and still half out of his mind with pain and fear. He’d blamed Obi-Wan every time his new limbs stuck or malfunctioned, or when his nerves lit like they were still burning. He’d been furious, and the anger he felt towards Obi-Wan powered him, but it’d run out of fuel months ago. It was exhausting to blame Obi-Wan. He didn’t want to, and when he’d decided that, the pervasive pain sharpened a different focus.

That wasn’t what Obi-Wan would want to hear. He didn’t believe that suffering granted clarity. Anakin knew it did, though. The pain he slogged through, medicated or not, focused him now that he allowed it.

Something timid pressed at the edge of his mind: a finger of Obi-Wan’s power. The man wanted to peek inside, to see for himself if Anakin was lying. He allowed it. He didn’t have much to hide. He didn’t try to force the other out or guide him. He didn’t know what Obi-Wan was looking for, anyway. He must’ve found it, though, because when he withdrew, the older man relaxed. He still didn’t look up, though.

Carefully, not wanting to startle him, Anakin scooted closer on the mat. He brought their knees together, wedging one of his own between Obi-Wan’s before the man could jam his legs shut. When his old master didn’t retreat, Anakin took that as permission. He raised a hand, hooking his fingers under Obi-Wan’s jaw. He tilted the other’s head up, catching his attention. It was clear, bright, and heated. The older man kept shifting. Anakin could feel it, both in his body and in the Force. The air around them shivered, crawling with Obi-Wan’s nerves and a single, heart peeling want. His eyes kept darting to Anakin’s mouth.

“You can,” Anakin muttered, answering a question he hadn’t asked. “I’ll let you.”

Obi-Wan made a sound like he’d been punched. “Is this a trick?”

Anakin shook his head and ducked, coming close. Obi-Wan stiffened, bracing for contact that didn’t land. Anakin hovered, resisting the tug to take the other’s lip between his teeth. It would scare him, and Anakin didn’t want that. He wanted to coax him. So he waited, his throat closing in on itself as Obi-Wan’s breath puffed his face. 

It was warm, getting warmer as the other closed their distance, moving like he expected to be shoved back. Anakin waited, skin itching, and jumped a little when Obi-Wan met him, timidly mouthing at his lower lip. It was dry and soft, and he could feel Obi-Wan shaking, needy and uncertain. It made him groan. The other swallowed it and fed it back, sounding pulled taut and relieved. The sound made Anakin dizzy.

Resolve breaking, he trailed the hand under Obi-Wan’s chin back to his jaw and tilted him for a better angle. The shift knocked their noses and Obi-Wan whimpered, brushing them together again before Anakin overwhelmed him. Holding him still, he kissed slowly, worrying his soft, giving mouth until Obi-Wan’s breath snagged hard. He started to shake and Anakin turned away, pecking the corner of his mouth and letting the older man paw at his shoulders. There wasn’t any thought to it, no intention except to touch. It was sweet, and Anakin sighed when fingers brushed against his throat.

There were a dozen things he wanted then, but he buried them all and kissed a few minutes longer. Obi-Wan felt smaller than he ever had, and Anakin didn’t want to crush him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who was expecting this chap to include smut, I’m deeply sorry but: a) I didn’t want to give Obi a heart attack; b) didn’t want to play all my cards; and c) can have more Events if I stretch things out ;)


	17. Homecoming, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I hope the last few weeks have been good to y'all :) Here we are again with another chapter. I'm going to be hammering this out more seriously when I sit down to write the next part (which is when I'll update the chapter count accordingly), but I'm expecting after this one to only have two more updates before the story comes to a close. I can't wait to see what y'all think about how things wrap up, as well as your feelings on this chapter!
> 
> Thanks so much for reading <3

Inside her new starhopper, Kuli sat listening to the rain. It beat against the hull and sheeted through the forward viewport. The heavy downpour obscured the landing pad and estate of the man who staffed it. She felt alone-- truly alone-- for the first time in months.

The soft red glow of emergency lighting made her tired eyes heavier. The trek from the Organa's palace to the pad had taken hours. She was exhausted and wanted to sleep. There wasn't time, though. Days on Alderaan were short, and when she'd finally reached her ship it was nearing night.

Getting to the ship had been miserable work, the long walk made longer by the storm that’d followed her from the city. Despite knowing that'd be the case, though, she'd refused to take a speeder. She'd wanted the length of the walk to be sure of her decision.

Leaving Del and Lars on Alderaan still didn't sit well, though she’d by that point fully made up her mind to leave. She knew they'd be safe while she was gone, and that Obi-Wan and Skywalker would soon be joining them. By the time her own ship touched down on Vrogas Vas, theirs would be long gone. The two men had already set course for the pad she was idling on, warming her engines.

That was just another delay. 

She had a call to make, certain things she needed to say before setting course for the planet she planned to spend the next few weeks on. She still wanted to go, perhaps now even more than that morning. The rumble of engines bolstered something inside her. She felt the rattle in her teeth, and it cleared her head more than anything had been able to since the purge. She knew she needed to chase that and recenter, preferably before making any other, real decisions.

Del had been understanding as usual when she told him. Lars was decidedly less so. He hadn't asked her to stay, but she sensed that he wanted to. When she announced that she was going, she felt his energy collapse inward and overheat. He'd bitten his tongue and made anxious, clenching fists. He didn't want her to fly away. He didn’t think she’d come back if she did. 

His fear bit at her like an insect. She hoped he was wrong.

No, she corrected. He _was_ wrong. She'd promised him and Del, as well as the senator. She told them all that she’d come back in a month and she intended to, even if it was only to say she couldn't help. She hadn't given an answer yet, one way or the other. Del and Lars had already committed to Organa's cause. She hadn't been able to bring herself to, and while Bail hadn't pushed, she knew she couldn't avoid making a decision forever.

Sighing, she reached for the ship’s instrumentation. Flipping switches, she brought it out of emergency reserve. The interior flickered to life as secondary functions came online, the last of which was the tiny comm station. Its screen flashed, slogging through data that Bail must've sent during Kuli's trek. When it synced, coordinates for the Temple scrolled across the screen. She fed them to the navicomputer, allowing it to plot a course for itself. 

While it made calculations, she entered in the comm code for Wedge's ship and sent out a hail. 

Her station blipped, each sound several long seconds apart as it tried making contact across space. As it searched, she reclined in her seat and focused on the rain. The drops had slowed to smack hard and fat against the viewport. They made loud thunks before running down in dozens of crooked little rivers. The viewport looked like it was sinking beneath the surface of a lake. She hadn't seen such a dreary day since Kashyyyk.

Before she could think too much of that, her hail was received. She heard the bright _ding_ , then the chitter of the station’s holopuck receiving a visual request. Kuli sat up and adjusted the lay of her soaked tunic before accepting. The station spat up a feed and the image of a Tholothian boy resolved almost immediately.

“Hello,” she greeted, not bothering to try to guess his name. Obi-Wan had said it on Bestine, but she hadn’t committed it. “This is Kuli Prim. I’m a member of Obi-Wan’s team. Senator Organa gave me your comm frequency. May I ask to whom I’m speaking?” 

The boy smiled widely, showing crooked teeth. 

“Milo,” he said, voice soft and sweet. “Milo Halabi.” He gave a half bow, spilling tendrils over his shoulders. “Sorry for the return delay. I’m not very good with tech.”

“That’s alright. Is Obi-Wan nearby?”

He shook his head. “He’s with Master Wedge at the helm. She’s giving him a crash course in the yacht’s controls.” As if on cue, the boy stumbled out of frame. Kuli heard him cuss, and when he reset himself at the camera, he looked frazzled. Not surprised, though. He fussed with his tendrils and smoothed out his tunic. “‘Crash’ being the operative word. Do you want me to get him?”

She considered saying yes. It might be in the ship’s best interest. She decided against it, though; perhaps this would be easier. It’d give her burgeoning shame a few weeks to bank before having to look Obi-Wan in the face again. Not that she didn’t want to see him. She did. She already missed him, but she didn’t like how she’d acted on Bestine. The more time she could afford him to forgive her, the better off she’d be.

“I don’t want to interrupt. Could you relay a message?”

If Milo was disappointed, it didn’t show. “Sure, master. What am I telling him?”

She managed not to flinch from the word. “I’m en route to Vrogas Vas. I want to see the Temple, and I need a moment for myself. _Just_ a moment,” she emphasized. “Be sure to stress that I have a return date scheduled for next month.”

She didn’t want Obi-Wan to assume the worst. She’d already caused enough stress. 

“Oh.” Some of Milo’s excitement flagged. “I’m sorry, but we didn’t think anyone would be on-world. After the sandstorm--” He frowned. “The power grid isn’t even back up. You won’t be able to cook, or shower, or anything.” The boy thought for a second, his nose scrunching from the effort. “Kayoh can help you with it, but--” He sighed, sounding annoyed with himself, then grumbled, “I _knew_ I should’ve just fixed it myself.”

Kuli could’ve laughed. Fixing a power grid was nothing. She’d done it often enough without the help of a droid. She doubted it’d even take half a day, and whatever state they’d left the Temple in, it’d be better by far than even the nicest war camp she’d slept in.

“It’s fine,” she assured. “I don’t mind a little work. It’ll give me something to do, in any case.” She shifted, grimacing at how her wet clothes clung to the seat. “You’ll tell Obi-Wan?” He nodded. “Good boy. I’m sure you make your master very proud.”

He looked away, visibly embarrassed, and Kuli’s fingers curled. She wanted to tug his silka beads. She missed Farrah’s braid. It didn’t matter that the girl was too old at the end for the loving gesture. Kuli did it anyway, and would’ve given anything to do so again.

“Anything else, master?” the boy asked when he recovered.

Kuli shook the thought, swallowing hurt. “I have one for Skywalker too, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure. We’re playing holochess together later, anyway.”

“Are you?” She tried to imagine Skywalker doing something that innocuous, and found that she couldn’t picture it. “Do you like him?”

The boy nodded, tendrils bouncing. The answer seemed genuine, and she had a hard time understanding what about the grim creature drew Milo in.

"Well,” she sighed, opting not to worry about it. “When you have a moment, tell him--"

She broke off, considering her next words carefully despite the fact that she’d spent hours chewing them already. All throughout her journey, she wondered what she’d say when the moment came. Now that it had, she still felt unprepared. The only positive was that she was speaking to an intermediary. If it were Anakin, she likely would’ve lost her nerve.

She still didn’t like him, and didn’t think she ever would, regardless of how the others felt about him. She didn’t regret fighting with him and wouldn’t apologize for her suspicions. He had much more to prove, at least to her. She didn’t care to let him forget it. During the last few weeks, however, some of her resentment had banked. It was exhausting to be so angry, and not just with him. The last seven months had passed in a blur that left her heart feeling scrapped over rock. She didn’t want to be jerked around by grief. She wanted control of herself.

Deciding that, among other things, put a crack in her resolve large enough for regret to start leaking through. She kept thinking back to Coruscant, and what she’d done there made her queasy. Obi-Wan had been right. Her methods were as dirty then as they’d ever been. Whatever else he was, Anakin had been sick and weak. His body and mind were in her care, and she’d abused them. It was an old, nasty mistake, and making it again made her feel mindless. Shame as thick as a plate of durasteel kept knocking her across the jaw.

“Master Prim?” Milo prompted, the slant of his voice telling her that she’d taken too long to answer. 

She cobbled something together. She was out of time.

“Tell him that I know I shouldn’t have done it. That I'm not proud of how certain things played out." She reached up to tug the end of one lekku, fussing thoughtlessly. "That if I could do it over, I'd handle things differently." 

She couldn't, of course. It was ridiculous to say, and she doubted Anakin would be moved. That was fine. She wasn't trying to make a friend. She was clearing her conscience, and what he did with the fact was his business.

Milo's projection canted, and Kuli guessed the question.

"He'll know what it means,” she assured. “Will you tell him?"

"If you want," he said slowly, "or I could go get him for you." He padded his weight, debating on whether or not to say something. After a moment, he made up his mind. "It might make you feel better. It sounds like you’re trying to apologize. Doing it to his face might give him a chance to say something you need to hear."

 _Or something I don't_ , she thought, which was more likely.

"If he wants to discuss it, he’ll know where I’ll be."

Milo pursed his lips, for a moment looking older. Kuli imagined he’d learned the expression from Master Wedge. She felt pinned by it for a second, and a little foolish to be lectured by a boy. The moment passed quickly, though. Milo shrugged her decision off. His easy smile returned, wiping his disapproval clear. He didn’t suspect her of anything cruel. He probably just assumed she and Anakin had argued. 

She wouldn’t disabuse him of the notion. She didn’t want to upset him.

“If you say so,” he deferred, planting a hand on his hip. “I’ll pass both messages along. Anything else?”

“No. Thank you. You’ve been a great help.”

The boy laughed. “Remember you said that when you see the mess at the Temple. Sorry again. If we’d known you were coming--”

“But you didn’t,” she interrupted, “and I’ve told you already it’s fine.”

Milo started to incline his head, thought it through, then bowed instead. It was a quick, sloppy gesture. She still appreciated it. When he straightened up, she returned it, stooping in her chair.

“It was good to meet you, Milo,” she said, and she meant it.

* * *

"Did you and Master Prim have a fight?" Milo asked, three moves into their game.

Anakin stiffened, but didn’t look up from the board. He eyed his K’lor’slug, noting its distance from Milo’s nearest piece, and wondered if it was too early to make an attack. 

If he were playing against Obi-Wan, the older man would say it was. His old master played long games, backing his opponents into corners and picking health off each of their pieces slowly. Anakin didn’t like the tactic; he preferred a heavy offensive.

Milo seemed to use a similar strategy to Obi-Wan’s. His first few moves were quick, but he favored the same pieces. Two of them regenerated health and had the highest base stats of any piece. Taking just one down would require coordinated attacks.

“Did she say we did?”

He moved his K'lor'slug, using only half its movements to keep his Grimtaash in range. If he could string it along, then maybe he could stun Milo’s Houjix, attack twice, and at least get one piece out of the way.

“Not exactly,” the boy said, leaving his Houjix exposed to advance his Ghhhk instead. “But she asked me to give you a message.”

“Same time she gave you Obi-Wan’s?” The boy hummed. “And you're just now bringing it up, because?”

It’d been hours since Milo came running into the command cabin to deliver Prim’s message for Obi-Wan. He hadn’t so much as hinted at the time there was a second, and Anakin hadn’t assumed. What was there to say? They didn’t like each other, and that was fine. He didn’t need another friend, anyway.

"I didn't know if it was something you'd want Obi-Wan to hear." 

Anakin looked up from their table and glanced aside. Milo followed his gaze to the next booth over. Obi-Wan and Wedge were there, no more than ten feet from them, leaning over a HoloNet station and chatting about news.

"That doesn't count," Milo said. "He's not paying attention."

"He’s always paying attention." Anakin thought for a second before advancing his Grimtaash. "But go on. You have to tell me now, anyway."

Unaware of Anakin's plan or unconcerned with it, Milo swept his Mantellian Sevrip up the left of the board. Anakin tried to guess his next move, and to his annoyance saw at least three ways for the Tholothian to cut his team in half. The Mantellian was Milo's ace, and with as much health it regenerated, even Anakin's Ng'ok wouldn't last. He frowned, wondering if he had time to go evasive or if Milo had already worked him into a corner.

"She said she wasn't proud of what happened before, and that she wished she’d done things differently." Milo popped his lips. "Pretty vague, but she also said you'd get it. So if you don't, you can't blame me. I couldn’t get any more details.”

Anakin grip tightened on the edge of his seat. He didn't mean for it to, didn't even realize until he heard the squeal of his knuckles. When he did, it was so grating that he winced. He forced his fist to unclench and flexed the fingers to loosen them. He tried to play it off as an overactive reflex. 

It didn't work. Milo's ever present smile flagged a little, and the edge of his bond with Obi-Wan tickled. He looked over to see if the older man was watching. He wasn't. His eyes were fixed on Wedge, who was telling him something, and every now and then he nodded along. Ostensibly he was absorbed in their conversation, but Anakin knew better. Obi-Wan always kept one ear open.

"Is that it?" he asked, looking back to the board, hoping to distract Milo with their game. 

It worked, but not how he wanted. _He_ was distracted too, and it made him make a careless move. He attacked Milo's Houjix before stunning it, and the only benefit was that it obviously wasn’t what the kid was expecting. He sat back, pulling his legs into the booth and hugging them against his chest. He studied the board again, trying to work out Anakin’s strategy. Never mind that Anakin didn’t have one.

"Basically. I tried talking her into telling you herself, but she didn't want to." After a moment, he gave up on worrying about Anakin’s plan. Instead, he refocused on splitting the board with his Mantellian. "I think she was embarrassed."

Anakin scoffed. “Imagine that.”

A warning fizzled at the edge of his awareness. Anakin could feel Obi-Wan worrying. He reached out through their bond, found a tendril of foreign energy, and knocked against it until it retreated. Not fully, but far enough that Anakin could barely feel it spying. Obi-Wan's presence faded to a faint pressure at the base of his skull.

It was a nice, familiar feeling. Padme used to press him there, which he didn't mean to think about. It wasn’t appropriate. Once he realized it was splintering out though, he didn't stop it. He let it spin off to whatever pocket of his mind Obi-Wan was loitering in. When it reached him-- a hazy memory of her moaning low in her throat as she guided him down with a heavy press-- his old master's energy flooded dark like it'd taken on blood. Anakin could almost picture him blushing, but before he could gloat, Milo asked another question.

"Was it a bad fight?"

The image of Prim's face blotted out Padme's, and the back of this throat tasted like sour wine.

"I did something I shouldn't have," he said, switching tack and trying to maneuver his Ng'ok out of danger. "Then she did, and it hasn't stopped being a problem."

If Milo was bothered by a second round of ambiguity, it didn’t show. He hummed, thinking through his next move.

"Maybe she wants it not to be," he said eventually, putting his Mantellian on an attack vector.

Anakin snorted. He doubted that. He didn’t say it, though. It wasn't Milo's problem, and he didn’t see the point in dragging up old politics.

"Maybe," he hedged, hoping that'd be the end of it.

It wasn't. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

Milo waited for him to finish his turn before responding. "Did you apologize yet?"

Anakin felt the tickle at the edge of his thoughts circle back. Obi-Wan was working back in, recovered from his embarrassment, and just in time for Anakin to have no idea what to say.

"It doesn’t always work like that.”

“Why not?”

Anakin’s attention snapped up, hot and annoyed and uncomfortable, but the flare of emotion banked when his eyes met Milo’s. The boy was watching him curiously, one hand threaded around his silka beads. His expression was soft and unassuming. He was just asking, like he thought Anakin had a good answer for _anything_. It made him think of Ahsoka, and his irritation washed over with guilt. 

He dug down deep in his memory, searching for the calm he remembered Obi-Wan answering most of his own stupid questions with. When he found it, he said, “Not everything is easy to apologize for. Sometimes, it’s not even possible. There isn’t always something you can say to make something right.”

"You should still try, though. That’s usually what people are looking for." Milo took advantage of a lapse in Anakin's planning and knocked out his Monnok in one move. “The first step to clearing the air is opening a window.”

Anakin sighed. Milo wasn’t technically wrong. It was the kind of answer that’d get him good marks in a Temple debate. This wasn’t a hypothetical, though. His and Kuli’s situation was real, and Anakin didn’t think it’d resolve like things did in parables. Her anger ran deep, and he still hadn’t forgiven her. He felt the aftershock of her violation every time he looked at her. But Milo didn’t need to hear that. The blood was dry and old.

“I think you’re trying to distract me,” Anakin said, deflecting the point. He forced a smile, despite the dip in his mood. “What’s the matter? Think you can’t win without playing dirty?”

As far as changing the subject went, it wasn’t his best work. It was sloppy, and he could hear the distraction in his voice. Milo was kind, though, and maybe more importantly, happy that he was winning so easily. The excitement over it being his turn again was enough of a reason for him to finally drop the subject.

“I hate to say it,” he teased, “but I think I could beat you in my sleep.”

Anakin pretended to be offended when Milo knocked out a second piece.

“You handled that well,” Obi-Wan said in their room later.

Anakin looked up from the datapad in his lap. He was perched on the edge of their bed, knees splayed and reading.

“Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“For a moment, yes.” The admission was annoyingly honest, but before Anakin could be offended, the older man moved on. "I could sense how annoyed you were getting."

"Really?" Anakin scoffed, looking back to the datapad long enough to power it down. When the screen went black, he tossed it onto the nightstand. "Well, thanks for the assistance."

From the corner of the room he'd wedged in to undress, Obi-Wan gave a low, handsome chuckle. Anakin let it roll over him, only slightly annoyed to be laughed at. It was easier to take when Obi-Wan was nearly naked.

He'd gone to the sonic after their groups left the lounge. Anakin and Milo's game rounded out the night. Wedge's team went to their rooms, and Anakin and Obi-Wan headed for theirs, separating when Obi-Wan made for the ‘fresher. Anakin didn't need to wash again, so he'd opted to read while the older man rushed through his nightly routine. It took barely ten minutes, and he came back to their room scrubbed pink and fisting a towel around his hips. 

It was distracting. He'd seen the older man naked hundreds of times, but the shallow cut of his Adonis belt still snagged Anakin’s eye. He caught himself wondering what it'd feel like to trace it, and what sounds Obi-Wan would make under his fingers.

"You didn't need it," Obi-Wan said, stepping into his leggings. He slid them on under his towel, preserving modesty. "You had the situation well in hand." 

There was a joke there, Anakin decided, as the older man adjusted himself through the towel.

"You too."

"What?" Obi-Wan’s brow furrowed, then: " _Oh_." He snatched his hand away, faint color dusting his cheeks. "You're horrible."

"Maybe.” Anakin shrugged. “Or you're a prude." He scooted back onto the bed, clearing Obi-Wan's side. "You should stop shuffling around, anyway. We’re landing tomorrow, and it's late."

Anakin beckoned him to bed and the older man frowned, hands crossed over his bare belly.

"I'm not--" He looked at the drawer the rest of his clothes were stuffed in.

"Do you need to be?" Anakin asked. "You aren't going anywhere."

He settled into his side of the bed, burrowing under the covers. They were soft, and so were the pillows, and the mattress was plush. Everything about the room was comfortable. Anakin hadn't slept anywhere so nice since the nights he used to hide out in Padme's apartments. 

Obi-Wan watched him, debating on whether or not to put on a shirt. Anakin didn't push. He had a preference, but Obi-Wan needed soothing. Easing him in was like gentling a varactyl; if he wasn’t careful, the older man would startle, and neither of them would get anything.

Coming to a decision, Obi-Wan nudged the drawer shut and called the lights down to a gloomy five percent. What light was left in the room mimicked a dappling of moonlight. Anakin couldn't see much of Obi-Wan in it. Confident he wasn't being stared at, Obi-Wan uncrossed his arms and climbed into bed beside the other. He settled onto his back, squirmed for a second, then changed his mind and rolled onto his side to face Anakin. 

"I meant it," he said, wriggling his hips to close their distance. "You really were quite decent."

Anakin snorted. The pillow warmed under his breath and he nuzzled his cheek against it. "If it's all the same, I'd rather not talk about it."

Obi-Wan made a small noise and shifted closer. His heat bled under the blankets, warm and inviting. If Anakin focused, he could feel the other’s energy stretching out to meet him, ticking up nervously like it had every night since that first kiss.

Anakin fed into the nascent desire whenever he could, hoping to encourage Obi-Wan to reach out on his own. So far, that hadn’t happened. The older man was stubborn. Self-restraint was long running practice. When they were alone, the air between them shimmered with unresolved need. It might’ve gotten him what he wanted faster if he ignored Obi-Wan, _forced_ him to ask for it, but it would’ve been mean, so he very carefully moved things along.

It was-- maybe _intimidating_ wasn't the word, but the margin for error was uncomfortably large. The upset of their balance left him feeling clumsy. He wondered how Padme had managed it.

"Are you tired?" he asked, and there was just enough light to see Obi-Wan shake his head. "You sure?" He reached for the other's neck, enjoying how Obi-Wan angled towards him. "I kept you up late last night."

His fingers bumped Obi-Wan's clavicle and traced up towards his jaw. When he found the hollow at its hinge he pressed, remembering the little bruise he'd suckled there. He hadn't meant to, and when it was over Obi-Wan was irritated. Anakin didn't regret it, though. It was a tender spot on most beings, and the sounds his old master made hadn't been disappointing. He'd had to clamp a hand over Obi-Wan's mouth to keep him quiet.

"Oh, that?" the older man said, falling short of a tease. "It wasn't taxing." He tilted his head, baring more of the spot. Anakin didn't waste the offering. He dug his thumb in to deepen the bruise. "You've kept me up for more troublesome reasons in the past."

That was probably true, Anakin thought. Still:

"I could try harder. Maybe you need one on the other side, too." He felt Obi-Wan shiver at the suggestion. "Or would that annoy your friend?"

"If you're talking about Bail, I’m sure he’d find it as amusing as you do.” Obi-Wan swallowed thickly, bobbing Anakin's thumb. "Once you're finished being catty, the two of you will probably get along."

"Not being catty," Anakin said, but his heart wasn't really in it. He wasn't interested in arguing about the senator. He had one last night to fully secure Obi-Wan's attention before meeting with competition, and he didn't plan on wasting a second of it.

* * *

Alderaan hung like a gem against the blackness of space. It was as beautiful as Obi-Wan remembered; perhaps even more so. He hadn't seen the world from orbit in over a year, and hadn't realized how terribly he missed it until it loomed through his room's viewport.

He hadn't been awake for long when their ship entered orbit, and was still lounging in bed when Wedge's voice came over the main comm. Through the crackle, she announced that they were stalled, waiting for Bail's people to pull the right strings with traffic control. It was an exercise that could take minutes or hours, Obi-Wan knew. Preferring to err on the side of the former, though, he hurried through getting dressed. 

He let Anakin sleep a while longer, not nudging him until he himself was finished. Even then, the younger man grumbled. He didn't disobey, though. Looking pleasantly rumpled, Anakin allowed himself to be shoved out of bed. He took his time dressing, and was still slogging through it when the holopuck on Obi-Wan’s nightstand registered a call. 

The sound surprised them both. Obi-Wan had taken the device for himself on their first night aboard Wedge’s ship. He’d sent its frequency to Del and the senator, but given how short the flight was, Obi-Wan hadn’t expected them to need it. He’d sent it through as a precaution, and having it used prickled Obi-Wan’s nerves. Whichever man was calling, Obi-Wan couldn’t imagine what they’d need that couldn’t wait until the group made their imminent planetfall.

Tamping down the reaction, Obi-Wan snatched up the puck and centered it on the highest mound of blankets. When it was secure, he opened the feed and seconds later, a quarter scale holo of Senator Organa resolved above the bed. The man was fully dressed, once again looking as if he’d called after sneaking away from a day at court. He was standing behind his desk, arms propped on the back of his chair casually. His smile was bright, and the sight of it relaxed Obi-Wan somewhat.

“Senator,” he greeted. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Off in the corner, Anakin scoffed. Obi-Wan ignored it.

“The pleasure is mine, I’m sure.” Bail’s attention scraped Obi-Wan’s chest. “I see you’re dressed today. Wedge must’ve made the announcement.”

“About half an hour ago,” he confirmed. “How long do you expect us to be in orbit?”

“No more than an hour. I’ve had forged ident logs ready for weeks, and one of my people is splicing them in now. It isn’t hard, but it can be terribly obvious if the tampering is sloppy, so I hope you’ll forgive a few more minutes in space.”

Obi-Wan threw his eyes to the ceiling, pretending to be inconvenienced. “I’m not sure. It’s very dull and cramped up here.”

“Compared to your last ship?” Bail grinned, showing teeth. “I’m sure it is. I’ve practically crammed you and Anakin into a shoebox.” He paused, tongue darting to cut along the edge of an eyetooth. “Speaking of, is he with you?”

Obi-Wan felt a nudge through their bond, sharp and insistent. When he dared a look, the younger man was shaking his head. His bed messy curls bounced through the motion as he backed toward the door.

“Yes, actually,” he said, before Anakin could reach it.

The withering heat of Anakin's glare rivaled the back blow of a ground cannon. Obi-Wan endured it, smiling as pleasantly as he could.

"Excellent," Bail said, before addressing someone he couldn't see. "Come sit down, if you please."

It looked very much as though Anakin _didn't_ please. Already caught out, however, he didn't ignore the summons. He walked stiffly to the bed and sat down on the edge. He didn't look at Obi-Wan, but their bond was thorny with annoyance.

"Senator," he greeted coolly, but looked no more surly than usual, which Obi-Wan considered an impressive feat. "It's been a while."

"It has. So long, in fact, that I was beginning to think you were avoiding me."

Anakin stiffened, not liking how close to the truth the man had landed. "Why would I?"

"Oh, I don't know. Just a feeling. But, you’re here now, and thank you for seeing me. I promise not to keep you very long."

Senator Organa rounded the high back of his chair, taking a seat for himself. He settled, and when he spoke again, his tone was as moderated.

"You'll soon be enjoying the Queen's hospitality,” he began, as he might’ve if he were speaking from his senatorial repulsorpod. “That isn't conditional. I've told Obi-Wan, and I don't mind telling you. Whether or not you chose to help with my endeavors, you have bed on Alderaan.” He waved a hand, gesturing indistinctly to the room around him. “We aren’t holding a safehouse over you as leverage. You can stay as long and as often as you need, no favors expected, but it’d be dishonest to say I won't be asking one of you."

The senator paused, ordering his thoughts. Anakin didn't interrupt the process, and neither did Obi-Wan. After a moment, he continued.

"Not lightly, of course. I’m aware of the danger you’d be putting yourself in on my people’s behalf. You'd have my protection, but I know how much and how quickly that sort of request would require you to trust me."

"Should I not?" Anakin asked, trying to make a dig. It fell flat. Obi-Wan could hear his confusion. 

"I'd like you to," Bail said. "I'd like for us to be allies. Friends, perhaps, given time.” He wet his lips, visibly uncomfortable, but his formal tone didn’t break. “But that kind of relationship requires honesty. Real honesty, of a sort we haven’t given each other. In light of that, there are some things I’d like to say.” 

He paused, looking at Obi-Wan, and brought his clasped hands to his lips. He kissed them in a sign of apology, and Obi-Wan’s brow creased. Anakin didn’t miss the gesture and looked between them suspiciously.

“Ok,” he said slowly. “I’m listening.”

Bail hesitated, for a moment seeming to reconsider. His attention skated over Anakin’s face, lingering on features that Obi-Wan couldn’t guess the significance of for several long seconds. Then he sighed, made up his mind, and pressed on.

“First, I want to offer my condolences. Padme was a wonderful woman, and dearly missed. Not a day goes by that Breha and I don’t think of her.” His mouth turned down, shoulders finally slumping to match it. He breathed out slowly, his well worn sadness a palpable thing. “One husband to another, I really am sorry. I can’t imagine your pain, and wish you’d had enough stability to grieve.”

Whatever Anakin had expected, that hadn’t been it. The younger man balked, and the rigid line of his back broke. He blinked at the projection, not entirely sure of what he’d heard. For his own part, Obi-Wan stared at it, unmoving. He felt the blood drain from his face, chest, and arms, funneling down to pool sickly in his feet. His hands trembled against the bed, and he thought it might’ve been less shocking if the senator had kicked his teeth.

“I don’t--” Anakin started, falling back on the habit of denying, but stopped short. He swallowed, trying to parse out what Bail meant. 

He didn’t look over at Obi-Wan, which was just as well.

The older man felt unsteady. He had no idea when the senator and Breha had come to this decision, or why. They’d been so sure not even eight months ago. They’d asked Obi-Wan to swear not to reveal them, and he _had_. He’d never intended to give them away. Now, however, it seemed they’d decided to do so themselves. He wished they’d told him sooner and allowed him to prepare.

Bail waited for Anakin to speak again. When the younger man didn’t, he weaved his hands together on the desk. Straightening up, he brought himself around to the point. Obi-Wan felt it coming like the static before a storm.

“I also want you to know that we’ve taken her final request seriously. Being entrusted with something so precious means a great deal, and we’ve done all we can so far to live up to the honor.” He cleared his throat, working through a knot of emotion. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Anakin shook his head, but that wasn’t entirely true. Awareness was stitching together in him. It thrummed, high and panicked, and the younger man had gone stiff again, the Force all around him turning the color of an old bruise.

Senator Organa sighed, giving up on delicacy. “We have the children. Here. At the palace.” Anakin flinched, and Bail clucked his tongue. “Easy. You don't even know what I'm going to say." He bent toward his holopuck, leaning close and softening. The sympathy wasn’t forced, and Obi-Wan was relieved. "I need you to pay attention. Can you do that?"

Anakin made to speak, but the words hitched on something. His breaths sounded like they cut his throat. The younger man turned his eyes down, maybe embarrassed, and nodded instead. Bail accepted it with a hum.

"Good," he soothed. “That’s good. You don’t have to say anything, and you certainly don’t have to make a decision now. I’d rather you take your time and be sure of what you want, but I’m telling you now to make it clear we aren’t opposed to giving you options.”

There was a pause, and it took Anakin several seconds to realize Bail was waiting for a sign. He gave one when he did, the nod stiff and mechanical. When Bail had what he wanted, he hurried on.

“We’re maintaining custody. That’s non negotiable. However,” he tacked on, when Anakin winced so sharply it tore Obi-Wan’s heart, “there’s room for your involvement. If you like, or could be satisfied, but I understand that perhaps it’d be difficult.” Bail swallowed spit, looking only slightly less unsettled than Anakin. “Breha and I are extending the offer, all the same.”

“Why?” Anakin hissed, sounding at once wounded and hopeful. Bail’s eyes softened, and Obi-Wan wondered what he was thinking.

“They’re children,” the senator said, “not dolls. I won’t play games with them. It wouldn’t be fair to them, or, as I understand it, to you.” He sat back in his chair. “Obi-Wan tells us you’re doing better. Is he lying?”

Anakin shook his head, very nearly pleading.

“Then there’s no reason to hide them from you. I’m not interested in being petty, and I don’t believe in excessive punishment. If you’ve proven you’re not a threat, I won’t treat you like one.” Bail exhaled heavily, bringing himself back to center. “Just think it over, and as I said: take your time. The three of us can unpin this discussion when you’re ready.”

There was another, final pause. Anakin hesitated in it, but eventually gave a tense nod. Bail returned it before looking to Obi-Wan again, an uncharacteristically meek expression coloring his face.

“I should let you go,” he said, tone full of apology. “I don’t want to throw a wrench in your descent plan. There’s been a slight change of schedule-- Wedge can fill you in-- but for now, suffice it to say I won’t be seeing you until tomorrow.” He placed a hand over his heart, asking for a pardon that Obi-Wan, despite feeling sideswiped, had already given. “Safe landing, my friend.”

Obi-Wan returned the gesture and thanked him, then terminated the connection, leaving himself and a stone-still Anakin alone.

* * *

The younger man didn’t speak for the rest of the flight. He wasn’t unhelpful, but he was unnervingly quiet. He ran through his duties in total silence, and even their bond was dead, so still that Obi-Wan couldn’t guess what his friend was feeling. 

It made him anxious, so he busied himself with his own tasks. He secured the group’s luggage, safely stored all their weapons, and corralled everything they needed near the boarding ramp. By the time he was through with it, they’d already made it out of orbit.

Traffic control didn’t bat an eye at their doctored log. Bail’s people must’ve done a well enough job. That taken care of, all that was left for Wedge to do was bring them down, which she managed to do without any fuss. Once in atmo, she plugged their real target coordinates in, allowing the yacht’s navicomputer to plot their course. It turned their nose to a distant ridge of mountains Obi-wan could just make out through the lounge’s viewport. His own work done, he curled up by it and watched the flyover, allowing the familiar scenery to sooth his nerves.

He watched as fields speckled with wildflowers and packs of roaming manka cats gave way to hills that steepened as they neared the mountains. They made deep, verdant valleys that locals nestled farms in: little houses surrounded on all sides by creeping vineyards. Oceans of vines and grapes covered the land to the root of the mountains, whose snowy peaks were so inaccessible Obi-Wan doubted anyone had ever been there. A few sporadic settlements clung to the mountainsides, jutting out dangerously and connected by pod tracks, though even those thinned to nothing as they neared the landing pad.

It, as well as the home of the man who managed it, was a lonely speck of land between craggy peaks. The ridge line made a crown for the dreary, imposing estate, which seemed more like something out of a cautionary tale than a safe place to sleep. It was dark and sprawling, made of so much stone that it felt chilly, and Obi-Wan had to remind himself that it was Bail who’d sent them there. Any misgivings, then, were unfounded. The senator wouldn’t have sent them somewhere dangerous. 

Besides, the voice that came over the comm to guide them down was friendly.

The pad’s manager, who instructed Wedge gently through the strange descent, met them at the head of their boarding ramp when they were settled. He was old, deeply wrinkled, and bent over a cane as thick as an arm. Despite his frailty, he welcomed them warmly and radiated boyish energy. He took their names, greeting each of them individually, then led them back to his home, chatting constantly. He hardly took breaths long enough for them to respond, but that didn’t bother him. He didn’t seem to care that he was speaking to himself. 

“And of course,” he finished as the group entered the foyer, which was as cold and dark as Obi-Wan expected, “you’ll have dinner whenever you like. There’s plenty of food, but settle in first. You people must be exhausted.”

“Thank you,” Wedge said, speaking for all of them. "Does it matter which rooms we use?”

“Not at all. There’s a dozen suites, next floor up: sets of two connected by a ‘fresher, so if you partner up, be sure you like the person.” He winked at her, which might’ve been lewd if he weren’t so old, before turning to totter off. “Just come and find me when you’re hungry.”

He disappeared, leaving the group at the foot of a tall, winding set of stairs. Not wanting to linger, the six of them gathered their bags and made their way to the wing their host had prepared for them. They chose their rooms, breaking into the usual pairs, which left Anakin and Obi-Wan alone again. When their door latched and the younger man tossed their bags, the question finally wormed its way out.

"Are you angry with me?"

Obi-Wan hated asking it, but he’d been thinking it since before they’d entered atmo. Anakin didn't answer immediately. He stared at Obi-Wan, considering, for once thinking his emotional responses through. It was almost funny, for all the times the older man had begged him to do so. Obi-Wan never thought it’d be so miserable to be listened to.

"No," Anakin said eventually, and didn’t elaborate.

“Are you angry with Bail?”

He grimaced. “Can we not talk about it?”

Obi-Wan didn’t think that was a good idea. He could feel the tension radiating from his friend. It throbbed, dull and persistent, like a muscle in need of stretching. If they let it go, Anakin would just be sore.

“It might help,” he tried again. 

“It wouldn’t.”

Without further comment, Anakin grabbed the hem of his tunic. He tugged it and his undershirt off over his head and threw them aside. Obi-Wan blinked, surprised.

“What are you doing?”

“Taking a shower. A real one. Are you coming?”

“Am I--” He watched the younger man tug at the fastenings of his pants. When they opened on his bare belly, he swallowed hard. “What?”

“You heard me,” Anakin grumbled. “I’m not asking again.”

Anakin shucked off his pants, taking his underwear down with them. He didn’t seem to care that he was being stared at, a fact that made Obi-Wan flush. The older man tried keeping his attention on Anakin’s face, but when the other straightened to roll his shoulders, the effort failed. His eyes skated over his chest, down his belly, to his-- then Anakin snorted, or maybe laughed, snaring his attention. Obi-Wan’s eyes clawed back up and found the other smirking at him. 

“I’ll leave the door open,” he said. “Come get in if you want.”

Without waiting for Obi-Wan to ask another question, he disappeared into the open ‘fresher. He called the lights up to quarter power, dully illuminating the room, before opening the taps and adjusting the temperature. Obi-Wan stood in their room, listening to his friend make the adjustments. He shifted his weight, considering and reconsidering for several minutes, wondering if the offer had really been genuine. 

It wasn’t unlike Anakin to joke, but sharing showers was something they’d done a hundred times before. Besides, they’d been kissing. Anakin couldn’t be that opposed. Unless it was a trick, though if it was, it was an elaborate one. Anakin had been very gently stoking him for over a week. The bruises suckled under his jaw still ached. It was far too much sustained effort. The younger man didn’t have the attention span, and perhaps it wouldn’t--

It was only a shower, after all.

Making up his mind, he peeled out of his clothes and padded cautiously into the ‘fresher. It was already steaming. Smoky curls whisped through the room, fogging up the mirror and shower door. He could vaguely see through it; Anakin leaned heavily against the wall, allowing the spray to pound against his chest. It milked contented sighs from him, and the sound stabbed Obi-Wan’s gut. He thought about leaving before his body could react.

"Getting in?" Anakin called over the spray.

 _Too late_ , he thought. The younger man had sensed him.

"If there's room."

“Plenty.” The door slid open, belching heat. "Hurry up. You're letting the cold in."

Obi-Wan obeyed, slotting into the stall behind the other. He shut the door, and when it clicked, Anakin looked back. He peered over his shoulder, sopping curls stuck to his forehead. He blinked through the water, face and shoulders glistening and slick.

“Want to get warm?” Anakin asked.

It turned out not to be a real question. Once he’d stepped back enough behind the spray, he reached out. He caught Obi-Wan’s wrist and pulled him under, shocking his chest and belly with the scalding heat. 

The older man winced, arching a little to get away. Anakin didn’t let him. 

“Close your eyes.”

It was all the warning Obi-Wan got before being tugged fully under. He shut them in time to keep the water out, hissing when the water burned his face. 

Anakin shushed him and slid his free hand into Obi-Wan’s hair. Careful not to catch any in his knuckles, he massaged down to the roots. It helped it soak through, and the press of his fingers felt good. Obi-Wan swayed, slumping against the other’s chest. It was solid and warm, and the slide of their skin sparked a wounded ache between his legs. He made a sound he didn't mean to and Anakin's breath snagged, fist drawing tight in Obi-Wan's hair.

It ripped at the roots, forcing his head aside and baring the line of his throat. Anakin dipped to mouth at a bruise, playing with the tender center. Obi-Wan bleated, startled and weak, and Anakin _laughed_. It was a throaty, rumbling noise that hitched up at the end, mimicking Obi-Wan's sound perfectly. Hearing it be fed back was humiliating, though thankfully he didn't have long to feel embarrassed.

Encouraged by the sound, Anakin spun them under the spray and knocked Obi-Wan's back into the wall. The chill was a lance, and he tried bending away from it. Anakin had slotted in quickly, though, managing to pin him. Between the other's chest and vicious, twin grips, there wasn't anywhere to go, and he panicked a bit. He shrank, overwhelmed by Anakin's strength and mounting want. He felt his heart hammer, unsure for a moment, and expected to be teased for it. 

That wasn't what happened. Not for the first time, Anakin surprised him. Scenting the shift, the younger man eased back. Relaxing his grip, he pulled back long enough for Obi-Wan to catch his breath before ducking back in and cooling his kisses considerably. He peppered soft, closed mouthed pecks from Obi-Wan's shoulder up his throat, working slowly enough that it made Obi-Wan's belly ache. His cock twitched, stiffening pitifully, and when Anakin reached the shell of his ear and mouthed along it hotly, all his nerves felt exposed. 

"Still with me?" Anakin asked, turning to nose Obi-Wan's temple.

It was so gentle that Obi-Wan wanted to come apart. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak without begging. He _wanted_ , and he didn't know what, and it made him feel frantic.

"Do you want to stop?" He shook his head, and Anakin pressed. "Are you sure?"

He nodded again, wondering if he actually _would_ have to beg, but the mortifying prospect faded to nothing when Anakin grunted. He pressed close again, leveraging his weight to crush Obi-Wan in place. The younger man was hard; Obi-Wan could feel it, and it made his lungs ache.

“There’s one thing we shouldn’t try here,” Anakin said, voice raspy and wanting, and Obi-Wan could guess. He could even imagine it. He glanced down at the fat hang of Anakin’s cock and thought of _taking_. He felt his own throb helplessly. “But if you want to come, I can make you.”

The hand unthreaded from Obi-Wan’s hair, skating down his neck and shoulder to palm roughly at his chest.

“You’ve done that before, right?” Anakin asked, scraping a nipple. “To yourself?”

Obi-Wan felt blood rush to his cheeks. He could’ve died. “Yes.”

Anakin hummed, the sound warm and low, and unbent to watch himself paw at Obi-Wan’s chest. He squeezed and kneaded, the touch almost bruising, but Obi-Wan pressed into it anyway. When his belly curved, Anakin’s attention rolled down it like oil. The younger man groaned at the sight of him half hard and twitching timidly.

“This won’t be like that. My hands aren’t good for it.”

The words were a reminder of something hideous, but Anakin didn’t sound angry. He was planning, and came to a decision so quickly it made Obi-Wan dizzy. Releasing Obi-Wan’s wrist, he sank to his knees, hands trailing behind to pin the other at the hips. He didn’t look up. The water would’ve blinded him, but he dragged the moment out another way, biting and kissing low on the older man’s belly. He took his time, enjoying the tenderness of the skin, like he couldn’t feel the swelling against his chin. Like he couldn’t feel the muscle he was mouthing clenching and jumping, trying to break free of his hold and roll. 

He ignored both, learning the taste of Obi-Wan’s belly until the other reached to pet uselessly at his hair. He didn’t fist it. His hands were weak, but it still earned him a groan and finally moved Anakin to take him into his mouth.

The slick slide punched a moan up from Obi-Wan’s gut. It echoed in the stall and egged Anakin on. He worked slowly, out of practice but determined, setting a pace that made Obi-Wan feel like he was being flayed. His head bobbed shallowly, his usually grim mouth gone giving and plush. He cupped his tongue, stroking a nerve that made Obi-Wan’s leg jerk. The older man watched, helpless and already so close, and gutted himself imagining the wet sounds Anakin must be making under the spray.

When he came, it was long and shuddering, dragged out by Anakin’s gentle milking. Obi-Wan felt him gag, surprised by the spurt, but he didn’t pull back. His brow furrowed and he groaned. The sound seared Obi-Wan’s overworked flesh, and he tried to wriggle free. Anakin didn’t let him. He tenderly and terribly coaxed him dry, and when he was finished, he got to his feet and bent for a kiss.

The other’s mouth tasted so much like salt that Obi-Wan’s knuckles ache to _hold_. Without warning, he reached between them, taking Anakin in hand and working through an old, familiar motion. The younger man cussed, tearing out of their kiss to moan open-mouthed against Obi-Wan’s jaw. It spiked Obi-Wan’s pulse, made him feel powerful in an unplaceable way, and he twisted his wrist to drag it out. He fed on Anakin’s noises, enjoying the stunted way his hips snapped, unable, perhaps, to follow through as they used to. It lent a vicious edge to his moans as he neared the edge, and Obi-Wan broke, dragging him over, wanting to be good to him.

After Anakin stilled, wrung out and panting heavily, they leaned together messily under the water. It was wasteful, but it felt good, as did the lazily way the younger man mouthed at the hinge of his jaw. Obi-Wan let him, tilting his head when Anakin nuzzled to make him room, and as the fog in his mind cleared, he had a thought.

“Pleasant as that was, I hope you don’t think you can use such tactics to avoid dealing with your feelings indefinitely.”

Anakin laughed-- genuinely-- seeming to surprise himself with the sound as much as Obi-Wan. Then he said, as if Obi-Wan’s heart could possibly take it, “You’re starting to sound like Padme.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obi-Wan (and apparently Padme, at some point): you should deal with your feelings  
> Anakin: or i could just-- and hear me out-- give you head


	18. Homecoming, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y’all! Sorry for the long wait. The last month has been a doozy. Lots of stuff (some great, some bad) has been and still is going on, so thanks for the patience with this and the final chapter!
> 
> I hope you enjoy it :) Let me know what you think! Can’t believe we’re almost at the end. I hope y’all like how everything wraps. I’m satisfied personally with how it’s going to tie off, and really hope y’all are too! Super excited about it.

Aldera was as lively as Obi-Wan remembered. Coming into it off the mountain was a relief. The layover at the landing pad estate hadn't been uncomfortable, but there wasn't anything on-world that compared to the capital's energy. It was a bright, bustling beacon, full of noise and color. Even in the summer heat, stepping into it was refreshing. A constant breeze blew over the lake, filling the lower districts with the smell of water. Waiting on the opposite bank to cross was an exercise in patience.

At the suggestion of their escort, the team broke into pairs and crossed the wide lake at half hour intervals. They needed to maintain stealth; it wasn't entirely safe, and crossing en masse would draw undue attention. The Organa's knew that the Emperor had spies stationed in the capital, and if one bounty hunter had informants, others likely did as well. There was no point in taking risks when they'd come so close to safety, so the Jedi did as instructed and broke themselves up.

Knowing the city best, Obi-Wan volunteered himself and Anakin to bring up the rear. The two of them waited, watching the boats the other pairs took bob quietly across to a city teeming with chaos. By the time it was their turn, the sun had reached midmorning height, breaking the surface of the water in glittering peaks. It wasn't uncomfortably warm yet, which was lucky-- their hooded cloaks were on. Another suggestion, and one Obi-Wan expected to resent come midday.

When they reached the opposite docks, the morning rush was in full swing. The pier was busy with fishers and swimmers all heading for the lake. They clambered over each other, hauling gear and dodging the hooded pair on their respective ways to the water. No one looked at them for longer than it took to show annoyance at out-of-towners disrupting their routine. 

Obi-Wan guided Anakin, who looked knocked back by the surge, through it and into the lower merchant district. The district, which stood as a buffer between the lake and residential area, was made up of several bustling rings. The first, which Anakin and Obi-Wan stumbled into off the docks, was dominated by temporary stalls and carts. Beings flocked them, bartering for fish, vegetables, fruits, and spices brought in over the mountains. A few carts sold caf, tea, and pastries, which wafted their baked smells temptingly through the streets.

Obi-Wan breathed them in, thinking of long gone mornings when he’d woken up in Aldera over temple leave. He’d often spent free weeks there, and passed the earliest part of morning wandering the colorful merchant rings. He'd follow the smells of pastries and get one for himself to enjoy while making his rounds, stashing two more for Bail and Breha. He liked the looks on their faces when he handed the sticky treats over. They were happy memories, and he hoped to be able to make more for Anakin.

That wouldn't happen today. The pair had a schedule to keep, and not even a minute to spare for sweets. Ignoring the call of cinnamon bread, he linked arms with Anakin and guided him forward, using their bulk to break through the crowded thoroughfare.

They picked across several streets, crossing into the ring that housed permanent shops. Clothiers and craftsmen rented space in the tightly packed quarter, and peppered between them were cafes and tea houses. Those had their doors propped open, and through them spilled sleepy beings who seemed to have wandered down from their apartments straight out of bed. 

The traffic was thinner, though not by much. Anakin and Obi-Wan still practically swam in it. Entire families navigated around them and people on speeder bikes weaved, swerving to take advantage of the smallest gaps to advance. Anakin cussed when one nearly brushed him, craning his neck to glare at the rider’s back.

"It's worse than Coruscant," he muttered.

Obi-Wan laughed. 

"Hardly.” He tugged the man closer, clearing more space for a rider hard on the tail of the first. “You only think so because you aren't zipping around in the air."

Not many were. Aldera hosted relatively few personal craft. They were popular in the mountains and at the shipping yard, but the island’s residents were more fond of walking. Traffic from the spaceport ruined enough of the view. Locals liked to look up and see sky, not undercarriages. 

It made for prettier days, though admittedly commute times suffered. The press of the crowd could cost one upwards of half an hour. Judging by how thick it was, Obi-Wan guessed he and Anakin would be late. To put their friends at ease, he reached into his pocket and activated the commlink Wedge had given him. He pinged through to her frequency, silently checking in, and made a note to do so regularly until they’d reached the palace.

It turned out to have been a good idea. Despite the thinning crowd, it took a frustratingly long time to break out of the upper ring. The main street was not only crowded, but undergoing construction. A group of layers and painters blocked the main exit. The blockade forced Obi-Wan to detour through a maze of side streets. Being out of practice, he got them turned around several times before making real progress, a fact that his young friend seemed incapable of not commenting on.

“Thought you knew this place,” Anakin teased, a little harshly, perhaps because he was starting to sweat under his robe. “If you have to call a rescue--”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Obi-Wan interrupted. “I just wasn’t expecting a detour.”

“Obviously. No--” Anakin dug his heels in, using the weight he had on Obi-Wan to prevent a turn. “You already tried that one. Look.” He jerked his chin up, indicating the sign. When Obi-Wan recognized the name, he flushed and Anakin snorted. “This might not be taking so long if you paid attention.”

Obi-Wan didn’t dignify the jab with a response. Instead, he focused on getting them through to the first borough. It took longer than he’d have liked, but when he finally managed it, he sighed and relaxed his grip on Anakin’s elbow. Unclenching his sore knuckles, he took a moment to get his bearings before guiding them back to the main street. From there, he led Anakin through a series of neighborhoods and city gardens, answering the occasional _pings_ in his pocket.

The deeper they worked into the island, the thinner traffic became. By the time they reached the last borough, they were nearly alone. A few beings clustered on park benches, made their way toward the university, or scurried away from the spaceport. Compared to the bustle of the market, however, the upper levels of Aldera were peaceful.

Obi-Wan indulged in that, relaxing against Anakin’s side as he led them toward the royal sector. It loomed just beyond the last borough, all high, gleaming domes that mimicked the snowy mountains at their back. Approaching it reminded him of walking up to Coruscant’s temple complex. The height, which might’ve intimidated less familiar beings, was comforting, and all the more so for who he knew was waiting inside it. The prospect of seeing the Organa’s again soothed long months of hurt.

“Should we do a check?” Anakin asked, sounding distracted. When Obi-Wan looked aside, he saw the other’s eyes weren’t on the palace. His attention was darting furtively down the mouth of each side street they passed.

“Of what?”

Obi-Wan tugged him aside, deviating their path. Keeping straight would bring them to the main gate, which wasn’t the entrance they’d been cleared for. For anonymity, they’d been instructed to veer off west. A guard would be posted there, waiting for them by a less conspicuous staff entrance. They’d be brought up from the palace’s bowels, which was the most practical, given the circumstances. They knew from Nema’s intel that, at least in some capacity, the main gate was being monitored.

“That we aren’t being followed,” Anakin said, the words curling as though he thought it was a stupid question. “How many times have _you_ tailed someone through a crowd?”

Too many to count, to be sure. It was a trick he’d relied on often. Heavy traffic was a blessing that ran both ways. If one was skilled, it wasn’t difficult to follow a person in it. A pursuant was less likely to be noticed in the flow.

“Do you sense anyone?” he asked, reaching out through the Force and probing the immediate area for ill intent. 

He opened himself to the emotions of the few beings in the plaza behind them. To his relief, he found them all less than interested. No one seemed particularly aware of or concerned by them. They were dismissed almost as quickly as they were noticed.

Anakin thought for a long moment, running the same check. Eventually he shook his head and said, “No.”

Obi-Wan was tempted to leave it there. The pair were already late, and the pings to his commlink were growing more insistent. They were coming through at five minute intervals. Master Wedge was getting nervous, or someone looking over her shoulder was. In either case, Obi-Wan didn’t want to keep their group waiting any longer than necessary. But, he also didn’t want to drag a threat to their doorstep. To be sure, he dropped Anakin’s arm.

“Have a look.”

Anakin bent and unbent his arm several times, working out stiffness before doing as he was told. Turning on his heels, he walked backwards alongside Obi-Wan, sweeping the plaza and eyeing shadowy alley heads. Obi-Wan crossed his arms in his sleeves, palming his own forearms for something to do with his hands while he waited. 

He didn’t turn himself, not wanting to make it too obvious. Not being able to personally verify didn’t trouble him. Anakin’s sweeps had always been thorough. The younger man had keen eyes and an even sharper intuition, facts which had both saved Obi-Wan several times.

“Clear,” the other determined, turning his back to the plaza.

Obi-Wan nodded. “Good. Bail wouldn’t have thanked us for bringing a problem to the palace.”

"Another problem,” Anakin corrected. “You're already bringing one, remember?"

He didn’t sound glum, exactly, but there was a marked dip in Anakin’s energy. A latent anxiety bubbled through the younger man’s end of their bond. It was too low and cool to boil but no less troubling for it. The senator’s proposition was obviously still weighing on him.

Obi-Wan sighed. He’d done his best the night before to have Anakin talk through his feelings. Despite the first attempt being thwarted, he hadn’t given up. Enjoyable as the wash had been, he didn’t want Anakin to stew. He brought it up several more times, but at each turn he was outright ignored. The younger man pretended not to hear, or left the room, or, when they were in bed, latched onto his neck again, attempting to muddy Obi-Wan’s thoughts by stoking want. 

He bit and suckled viciously, laying bruises into Obi-Wan’s shoulders and collar to silence him. Obi-Wan fought it; not terribly hard-- it felt good, and he found that he liked the increasingly animal sounds the younger man made. He managed to talk through it now and then, choking on a question that made Anakin growl.

_Would it kill you to shut up, Obi?_

It was more annoying in hindsight than it’d been in the moment. Not only did Obi-Wan’s bruises sting under his clothes, but it troubled him that Anakin refused to allow himself to be vulnerable. Obi-Wan was sure he could’ve soothed the other’s ache if he’d only been given a chance. That, or at least given him an opportunity to vent. Anakin had refused, however, and the result was this lingering suspicion. His friend was as clammed up as ever, and Obi-Wan suspected that was one thing that’d never change. It was a hardcoded trait the older man had been working around for over a decade. There wasn’t anything for it but patience, he supposed.

"If you're referring to yourself,” Obi-Wan said, knowing that he was, “it might interest you to know that the senator has never invited a problem to dinner, let alone had a bed made up for one."

Anakin brushed off the comfort. "Maybe he just doesn't want to annoy you."

"Considering what he offered you, I doubt it. From what I know of parenting, problems are even less welcome in the nursery." 

Even without touching him, Obi-Wan felt Anakin go stiff. His bristling was a visceral, full body expression. He carried tension high in his shoulders, and when they pinched, Obi-Wan saw it. The younger man frowned, but before he could argue, Obi-Wan pressed on.

"The Queen and her husband are kinder than you give them credit for.” He kept his tone neutral, resisting the urge to fall into a lecture. “And more interested in building bridges than burning them. It wouldn’t hurt to trust them, you know.”

Anakin grunted, not sounding like he believed that. He didn't make any further protest, though. Satisfied that he'd won the round, Obi-Wan let the subject go, then returned his attention to getting himself and Anakin inside.

* * *

Once they found the guard, things moved much more quickly. Having been expecting them, and recognizing Obi-Wan from prior visits, they were given the briefest pat down-- out of habit, Obi-Wan suspected-- before being given directions and let inside.

The guard didn’t escort them. It wasn’t necessary. Obi-Wan knew the receiving room their liaison described. It was one of the connectors attached to Bail’s office. He and the Organa’s had spent a dozen afternoons there. He could’ve found it in his sleep, and from any starting point in the palace.

Maintaining the lead he’d had on Anakin all morning, he brought the younger man up from the gloomy bowels of the palace. He guided him around the kitchens, through laundry rooms and cavernous wine stores, up a wide, bright set of stairs to the main levels. He took him through halls flush with furniture, art, and rugs, slowing their pace now and then to let Anakin look. Inside now, he was much less worried about losing time. The guard had called ahead of them. Their group knew they’d made it to safety, and the urgency was gone.

It took a little more than a quarter of an hour to reach the meeting room. When they did, Obi-Wan knocked on the door to be polite. While he waited for an answer, he lowered his hood and tried taming his bangs. The shaggy things tickled his nose, too heavy and long now to hold shape. They were sweat damp, a fact he tried to use to plaster them. No good, however. Several strands kept falling into his eyes.

Anakin mirrored him, half out of habit and half due to nerves. Obi-Wan could feel him fretting as he finger combed his curls. His knuckles caught and tore through tangles, making the younger man wince. Obi-Wan clucked his tongue, reaching aside to work Anakin’s hands free.

“That’s enough,” he soothed, combing through it himself. He broke up the last of the tangles more gently. Some of Anakin’s stiffness slacked, and encouraged by it, Obi-Wan scratched his scalp. “We’re all friends here. Do try to remember that.”

He pulled back from the other man in time for the door to open. Wedge was the one who answered, and seeing them, she sighed. Her shoulders slumped from the force of it, and she moved aside, ushering them in.

“Took you long enough,” the woman hissed, her usually cheerful voice stretched thin. “Did you run into trouble?”

“Nothing serious.” Obi-Wan slipped inside, beckoning for Anakin to follow. “It turns out I have less of a handle on side streets than I used to. I only got us a bit turned around.”

Aadila’s mouth crumpled and she crossed her arms. Her leg bounced as she barely resisted tapping her heel.

“I knew we should’ve left you an escort.” She took a deep breath, gearing up to scold. Before she could, however, a familiar voice interrupted.

“Please, master,” Bail soothed, “don’t badger my guests.” At the sound of his voice, Obi-Wan’s stomach flipped. Without the buzz of a holofeed it was lightyears warmer. “At least, not until I’ve had the chance to do so myself.”

His attention cut over Aadila’s shoulder to where Bail Organa stood, a steaming mug of tea in one large hand. He was propped next to his wife, who was absorbed in a conversation with Milo. She and the Tholothian were chatting happily, the two Nautolans listening and occasionally chiming in themselves. Breha didn’t appear to have noticed them, but the senator’s attention was fixed. It was soft, even relieved beneath the playful glint.

He stared back at the man for long, aching seconds, mouth working around a greeting he couldn’t make himself say. His throat was tight and something in his chest fluttered weakly. He realized then that he hadn’t expected to see Bail again. He’d wanted to, of course. He was a dear friend. In truth, though, Obi-Wan had prepared himself to be dead. The start of the purge made it seem so inevitable. He hadn’t planned to live long enough for this.

For his own part, Bail didn’t seem to have either. He wet his lips, hand clenching rhythmically around his mug. He pushed off the wall, considering his next move carefully, as though he was suddenly less than sure what he was allowed. After a few moments, he set his mug down and crossed the room. Before he reached them, Aadila sidled out of the way. Aware that she was no longer needed, she reentered the Queen’s orbit, giving Bail and the two latecomers time alone.

The man stopped a polite distance from them, giving the pair a quick once over. He took in their faces and color, scanning for signs of distress. When he found nothing immediate, he smiled at Obi-Wan.

“You look well.” His mouth quirked up, and he made a teasing amendment. “Though I suppose you could do with a trim.” 

He raised a hand to brush the bangs out of Obi-Wan’s eyes, fingers grazing skin thoughtlessly. Bail’s hands were soft, and the lotion he used was musky and familiar. Obi-Wan leaned into it, for a moment not caring if it would make Anakin angry.

As though he'd been testing the waters, Bail latched to the response. He took Obi-Wan by the shoulder and dragged him close. He wrapped the other in a hug, squeezing so hard that Obi-Wan felt breathless. He returned it, letting months of resignation fall away. He was still alive, and Bail Organa was as sturdy as ever, and it was so miraculous that Obi-Wan felt a cry catch in his throat. He breathed out shakily, eyes stinging, ready to well over. He didn’t allow them to, though. He didn’t want to embarrass himself.

He buried his face in Bail’s neck, breathing in his scent to steady himself. The senator allowed himself to be nuzzled, patting Obi-Wan’s shoulders until the other was ready to pull away. When he did, Bail let him go without any fuss. He let his friend put distance between them and took a step back himself.

“It’s good to see you,” he said softly, tugging a rumple out of his tunic. He cleared his throat then grinned, dulling the edge of the tender moment. “But Aadila’s right. It was rude to keep us waiting. My poor wife, especially. Breha, look who's arrived."

His call finally drew the Queen's attention. She turned reluctantly, apparently enjoying whatever Milo was telling her. When her eyes met Obi-Wan’s however, she brightened, patted the boy's shoulder, and promptly abandoned him. Gathering up her wine dark dress, she crossed the room in hurried steps, the flats of her embroidered shoes clicking sweetly. She nearly collided with Obi-Wan, brushing chests in her excitement.

"And here I was beginning to think you'd found somewhere better to go.”

Her smile fattened the dark apples of her cheeks. Dropping her dress, she balanced her hands on Obi-Wan's shoulders and lifted up onto her toes to kiss his forehead. He stilled, flushing from the easy affection, but didn’t pull away.

"I did consider commandeering a fishing boat," he teased, letting her pepper his sweaty face. He laid a hand over hers, giving the delicate bones a squeeze. "But I thought your company might be better."

"Than a barrel of fish? You flatter me." She dropped back onto her heels and wriggled her hand free. "I suppose now I must strive to live up to the expectation."

"A high bar, certainly." He smiled down at her, heart thumping against his ribs. He felt off balance. He’d missed her almost as terribly as Bail, and being in her orbit again felt too fortunate to be real. "Thank you for having us. Your home--"

"Is always open to you." The interruption was gentle, but Obi-Wan suspected she'd tolerate no argument. "I'll sleep easier knowing the both of you are safe. I've been worried sick for weeks that something would happen."

Obi-Wan's chest felt so cinched by the admission that it took him several seconds to realize who else Breha was referring to. When it registered that she meant Anakin, he looked over his shoulder and beckoned him forward, not wanting the younger man to be rude. 

Anakin hesitated, seemingly intent on hugging the wall. He looked startled by the three’s affectionate exchange. Not upset, precisely, which was surprising. Only, he seemed unsure of how he’d fit. He looked between the royal couple and Obi-Wan, padding his weight and leaking something strange into their bond. 

Undeterred, Breha moved to coax him herself. She stepped around Obi-Wan and glided into his space, smiling up at the tall, dour creature brightly.

"Is this your first stay at the palace?" she asked, as thought she somehow didn’t know the answer.

"Yes." Anakin paused, working out how to address her. "My lady." 

It was sloppy and not exactly correct, but Breha accepted it anyway.

"May the sun shine brightly on your visit, then. Every guest is an honor in times as unfriendly as these."

She held her hand out, plainly expecting it to be taken. Anakin blinked at it before looking to Obi-Wan. The older man felt fondness curl through his chest. The scene could’ve easily played out a decade ago. Anakin had never been good at formal meetings, and more than once Obi-Wan had to drill him on the way to a palace. There was no time for that now, though, so the older man settled for nodding encouragingly instead.

After a moment, Anakin reached for the offered hand. When Breha didn’t snatch it back, he took it carefully, letting her fingers curl over his own before bringing them up for a kiss. Breha inclined her braided head before pulling away. 

"I trust you'll be comfortable. Obi-Wan’s never complained, and your friends have settled in nicely." She turned to Bail. "Speaking of, perhaps we should let the new arrivals rest.”

Bail hummed, half turning to bring the rest of the group in view. Wedge and her people were leaned together against the wall. Milo especially looked exhausted, and Obi-Wan's heart ached for him. He couldn't help but wonder if his sickness had done lasting damage. The journey from the mountains was tiring, certainly, but the boy looked beat to the bone. He’d noticed it too on Vrogas Vas. Anakin had to be gentle with him. Perhaps his endurance had taken a blow. 

"I think that's for the best,” the senator agreed. “It's been a long morning, and the bags brought ahead by the escort need unpacking.” He gestured to Obi-Wan. "Master Kenobi can show you to the guest wing. Your things are waiting there, and you're welcome to put them in any room you like. Settle in; sleep and call down to the kitchen for whatever you need. We can all meet again at dinner."

Grateful for the dismissal, Master Wedge, Milo, and the Nautolans all gave the couple their bows. They filed out of the room to wait in the hall for their escort. Obi-Wan found himself hesitating, though. He held his ground, looking between Breha and Bail. He didn't _want_ to leave them yet. He'd only just got there. Sensing the hesitation, Bail reassured him.

“Breha and I aren’t going anywhere, my friend. We cleared our schedules for the day. There will be time to catch up after you’re rested.” He huffed a laugh. “And please, do actually rest. I’d rather you not to fall asleep at dinner.”

Obi-Wan snorted despite himself. “I suppose that would offend your chef.”

“Yes,” Breha agreed, “and we only just hired her. Don’t give her a reason to quit.”

Sighing, Obi-Wan gave into the couple. Somehow, that always seemed to be how it went. He rarely went against them, and they were right, anyway. This was their home. The pair weren’t going to be far, and he _did_ need rest. Hyperspace lag was setting in, and paired with how little sleep he’d gotten the night before, was beginning to make him feel ill. 

“If it's the Queen who's asking,” he said, inclining his head, “then I suppose I shouldn't argue.”

Breha waved it off. "I don't mind a bit of arguing. Though, I'd appreciate you simply doing what I ask this time.”

* * *

Anakin saw more of Bail Organa the following week than he had during the last five years combined. He was more capable of dodging court than his wife, and used the fact to keep their group company. Whenever he could-- which was often--, he wriggled out of meetings and led all of them around the palace. He gave tours of the interior and gardens, showed them the libraries, gyms, and lounges, determined to make sure they were comfortable.

Admittedly, it wasn’t what Anakin expected. They’d come to Alderaan to learn about Bail’s efforts, and he’d been prepared to be hounded about joining immediately. If that was the senator’s plan, though, he was executing it strangely. He didn’t mention the Empire or his own allies once during the first six days. When he finally did, it was after dinner over everyone’s third glass of Toniray, and read more as a natural turn in the discussion than anything.

“It started,” the man said after a long sip of wine, “largely as a humanitarian effort.”

“It still is,” Breha added, nursing her own more delicately. “You’d be surprised what counts as treason these days.”

The two were sharing a couch by the hearth in one of the sitting rooms. Wedge’s and Obi-Wan’s group were stuffed into their own. That or on the floor, glasses between their legs, enjoying the softness of the rugs and fire’s glow. They’d been talking for an hour, drifting in and out of conversations that fed over each other but rarely intersected. Anakin hadn’t been talking to anyone. He’d been listening and gulping Toniray. He hadn’t had it since visiting Padme, and he’d missed it.

He didn’t know which of them had prompted Bail’s response, or how the talk had even gotten there. Realizing what was coming though, he snapped to attention. He’d been waiting for this since they’d arrived.

Stowing his glass, he glanced up to gauge Obi-Wan’s reaction. The man was on a couch, sharing with Del. Anakin had wanted to take that seat, but Del was old, so he’d ignored it, opting instead to wedge into the space between their knees. It was comfortable, despite the occasional spasm in his back. The wine dulled his discomfort, and so did how Obi-Wan and Del’s hands kept finding him. Every now and then one of them touched him, ruffling his hair or cuffing his shoulder fondly. He let them. He trusted them both, and it felt nice.

Obi-Wan returned the look, shrugging at the question he read. The older man apparently hadn’t been paying attention either. Neither had Del, but he didn’t look as caught off guard as Obi-Wan. Anakin guessed that was because he, Lars, and Prim had already heard this.

Tilting his head down, he returned his attention to the Organa’s. Before he could think of something to say, Obi-Wan spoke up.

“I wish that was true.” He paused, and Anakin imagined him looking around at their group. “Unfortunately, we’re all well aware of what Palpatine considers treasonous.”

“Of course,” the Queen said. “I only meant that he didn’t waste time making it obvious. With all the effort he put into staging a coup, one would’ve thought his long-term approach would be more subtle.”

Bail snorted. “Subtly isn't necessary. He did enough fear-mongering as Chancellor to ensure there’d be little pushback. The senate is putty in his hands, and as for the citizens of the Core-- well, it hardly affects them.”

Anakin couldn't stop himself from muttering, “Nothing does. That’s why the senate never gets anything done.”

Someone, probably Obi-Wan, pinched the back of his neck. Anakin hissed, momentarily annoyed. Then he realized what he’d said and felt himself grimace. Thankfully, Bail didn’t seem offended.

“A common enough criticism,” the man allowed, “and I agree that there were blindspots. The system was imperfect, but at least it functioned. Now, all it does is parrot.” Bail’s full mouth turned down in a frown. “I can guess how a bill will go based on nothing but who raises it. It’s a mockery, and worst of all, many beings are content with it.”

“The illusion of safety probably has something to do with that.” Aadila’s voice drew everyone's attention to the hearth. Her back was pressed to it, long legs crossed at the ankles. “From what I’ve gathered, former Republic worlds are recovering.”

“Yes, though that’s as far as the luck extends.”

Bail rocked his back against the sofa, sinking into it more deeply. His shoulder knocked against Breha’s and the woman leaned into him. She braced against his bulk in a display of casual intimacy Anakin hadn’t expected from a Queen. From the holos he’d seen of her, she seemed formal and detached. Having known Padme, though, maybe the shift shouldn’t surprise him.

“Forgive us for being uninformed,” Obi-Wan said, working back in, “but what exactly has been happening to the other worlds? The intel we’ve received has been-- patchy.”

It was a polite way of saying that their source was unreliable. Nema was talkative, but they hadn’t been able to fact check. They hadn’t had access to galactic news until they’d boarded Wedge’s yacht, and even then only to official channels. Even before the imperial takeover, those hadn’t been impartial. They ran whatever slanted story they were paid to. Now, the channels were messy with thinly veiled propaganda. If there was trouble anywhere, you wouldn’t know it by the newsfeed.

“Largely? Nothing. The bulk have been cut off.” Bail raised a hand to tick off a list. “Embargos, travel bans, blockades, burgeoning military presences. It’s difficult to get anything on or off. Except for prisoners, of course. The Emperor does make exceptions.”

“War criminals?” Wedge asked.

“Ostensibly, though the definition has gotten loose. There have been dozens of mass arrests and a handful of hushed group executions. Those that haven’t been killed are reportedly languishing in prison. Which prison, though, and records of how they’re being treated are, as I’m sure you could guess, sealed.”

A few seconds of silence stretched, and in them everyone fidgeted, imagining for themselves what that _treatment_ was. Anakin glanced at Milo, wondering if he should be listening. If the Tholothian was disturbed, though, it didn’t show. He stirred his cocoa, leaning to whisper to his master. The woman muttered something back and he nodded solemnly. He sipped his drink, shoulders slumping, but didn’t disengage. Deciding to leave it alone, Anakin returned his attention to the royal couple. 

They were alluring, he had to admit. Or maybe he didn’t, and the wine was making him. Whatever the case, they weren’t hard to look at, especially in the comfort of the sitting room. Bail's heavy cape was off, his tunic parted to cool his collar, and the Queen's legs were drawn up on the couch. Her dress was pleasantly rumpled and some of her hair had worked loose from her crown braids. Her cheeks were flushed, and so were Bail’s. They looked relaxed. 

It made it hard to be as wary of them as he’d been a week ago. Anakin had warmed to them a little over his stay. He wasn’t entirely comfortable, but the edges of his nerves were less frayed. Their hospitality was chipping away at him. Neither Bail or Breha treated him differently than the others, and they hadn’t retracted their offer about the children. Like he’d promised, Bail hadn’t pressed Anakin for an answer.

He also hadn’t tried to make off with Obi-Wan. 

“How do you know?” Anakin asked, catching the senator’s attention. “If people can’t get off-world, who’s telling you?”

“I said it was difficult, not impossible. A determined being can escape almost anywhere, and I assure you that if you were on these planets, you’d be just as determined.”

Before Anakin could ask, the Queen reasserted herself.

"Imagine the place the GAR and Separatist forces left in the most ruin: the world most ravaged by bombs and ion cannons; fields burned and drowned in lubricant; water poisoned and radiation levels skyrocketed. Then imagine being one of the people who still has to live there." 

Anakin tensed, and he felt Obi-Wan do the same. Breha must’ve sensed it, because she amended.

"It's not an accusation. It's a fact of war. Entire star systems were ravaged. Without proper intervention, environmental collapses could start playing out within a few decades, not to mention malnutrition and disease. The battles staged on these planets have serious, long term effects, and no one wants to address them."

"Not anymore, she means,” Bail sighed. “My committee raised the issue of relief packages almost immediately, and we were banned for-- oh, what was it? Three weeks?"

Anakin frowned. "From the senate?"

He swirled his wine. That sounded too heavy handed. Palpatine had always been careful with his public image.

"Just from speaking, and not outright. You'd be amazed at how many ‘technical difficulties’ our repulsor pods had. By the time they were all handled, the other senators had been bought or moved on. Sympathy was always going to be difficult to garner, anyway."

Next to his master, Milo spoke up. "Why? If people are dying, the other worlds should want to help."

"It doesn't always work like that,” Bail said, which earned him the same unimpressed look it’d gotten Anakin days earlier. "Many who are able want to put the war behind them, even if it means overlooking suffering."

"They probably think those worlds deserve it," Anakin said, then felt two biting pinches on his neck. He yelped and tilted his head back to find Obi-Wan and Del glaring. "What? I didn't say I did."

"You’re not wrong,” Bail said, interrupting whatever Obi-Wan had been about to snip. “There's a general assumption of guilt, and it's caused a drought of empathy. I’ve been stonewalled the few times I’ve brought it up since, even in my own office. The official consensus is that it isn't the Core’s problem." 

That didn't surprise Anakin. Most things weren't. Trafficking, slavery, cartels, starvation, poverty-- those things either didn't exist there, or were ignored where they did. A few senators, including Padme, had tried to change that. They never managed to turn votes, though. At best, they deadlocked them. There were too few beings that cared about suffering lightyears away.

"Official," Wedge repeated, breaking up the dreary thought. "What about under the table?"

Bail smiled, a flicker of humor reasserting. "There's always plenty of help there. My colleagues and I have many contacts, and Sanctuary Coast is an established asylum. It hasn't been hard to attract refugees to it. The flow has been a bit overwhelming, but we’ve managed to provide food and housing, and the effort has already started to pay off. We’re collecting quite a varied group of friends."

From where it was still resting against his neck, Anakin felt Obi-Wan’s fingers twitch. "What sort of friends?"

"The kind who don't take issue with running blockades or smuggling crates. Or, occasionally, with jamming Imperial frequencies.”

Anakin quirked a brow. “Sounds like you’re talking about pirates.”

Bail placed a hand over his heart, affecting innocence. “I’m sure I don’t know anything about pirates. If I did, though, I’d say they count for less than half. The bulk of our friends are merely concerned citizens with exceptional piloting skills.”

There was a pause, and in it Anakin felt the man gearing up. Whatever he'd been leading to, it felt like he’d almost reached it. Anakin perked, wondering what the senator would pitch. Before he had the chance to find out, though, Breha interrupted.

"Before this goes any further, I should say good night." The woman yawned and made a show of checking the time. "We don't all have the luxury of dodging court. If no one minds, I'll be going."

She looked around the room. When none of her guests objected, the Queen knocked back the last of her wine. Her throat worked, and Anakin was a little embarrassed to find himself watching it. He tore his eyes away in time for her to put her glass down. Standing, she tugged the wrinkles out of her dress. She fussed with the pleats, adjusted the neckline, straightened her sleeves.

"It’s been a wonderful evening," she said, smiling around at them. "Thank you all, and especially Anakin." 

It took his wine fuzzy mind a second to catch up. When it did, he cocked his head. "For what?"

"Offering to escort me."

She held out a hand in anticipation of taking his arm. He blinked at it and almost said he hadn't offered anything. When Obi-Wan kicked his ankled, however, he realized he’d been volunteered and shook himself, clambering to his feet.

"Oh," he said stupidly, brushing wrinkles out of his tunic. "Right. Sure-- ah, my lady." 

Obi-Wan blew out an exasperated breath. Anakin ignored it, and so did the Queen. She thanked him again, latching onto his elbow before calling a final good night to her husband. Bail returned it, smiling fondly at her and nodding to Anakin. He looked between, eyes glinting playfully.

“Mind your neck, dear.”

It was obviously a joke because the woman laughed, but what they were picking at didn’t register until Anakin felt Obi-Wan’s embarrassment. It crackled through their bond, bright and boyish and sheepish. When Anakin chanced a glance, he saw him fingering the hinge of his jaw.

"I hope you didn't misunderstand," Breha said a few minutes later as Anakin followed her directions through the halls. "I don't blame the GAR or the Jedi for what happened. I only wish that use of such horrible weapons could've been avoided."

Anakin didn't respond immediately. He wasn't a general or Jedi anymore, so even if Breha _did_ blame them, he didn't think he had enough standing to be offended. He'd also never spent time alone with her, and wasn't sure what he could say. In his experience, Queens varied wildly in how much informality they tolerated.

It'd probably be safe to guess that Breha Organa was feeling informal. She was leaning more heavily on him than she needed to. Anakin could sense her alertness; she wasn't particularly drunk. Still, she let him bear the brunt of her weight. It was-- friendly, maybe. He wasn't sure. He'd never been good at making friends. Usually, he stuck to Obi-Wan. He didn't know what Breha was fishing for, but didn't want to deal with the fallout of guessing wrong.

As they rounded another corner he opted to play safe. "Some things can't be solved without weapons."

"You think so?" She pretended to consider it. "I wonder if Obi-Wan agrees."

Anakin swallowed a knee jerk response: _I don't need Obi-Wan to agree with me_. He bit his tongue all the way to the base of the stairs the last turn dumped them out on, only responding when he'd reined himself in.

"He usually doesn't."

Breha laughed. "He's brave, then. Bail almost always agrees with me." She paused, and Anakin didn't have to look to know she was leering. "And I have considerably duller teeth."

Anakin didn't bother playing dumb. There wasn't a point. She and her husband had obviously either been told or figured it out. He hoped it was the latter. The idea of Obi-Wan gossiping about him with Bail Organa made his stomach lurch.

"I'm teasing," she said when he didn't nip back. "But really, it's your own fault for not biting lower."

Anakin grunted, feeling heat creep up his neck. He was grateful for the corridor's dim lighting. He didn't like tripping over his feet, but he preferred that to being caught blushing.

"I think you're drunk, my lady."

She laughed, and the sound was so high and sweet that Anakin forgot to be humiliated.

"Hardly, though I suppose I am being mean. It wasn't my intention."

"What was?"

His boots scuffled as the Queen changed their direction. With a tug, she pivoted them down a secondary corridor. It was so narrow and dark that Anakin wouldn't have recognized it in full daylight. Slipping into it then, he felt lost.

"I wanted to show you something."

He waited for her to elaborate. She didn't. Instead, she all but dragged him the rest of the way. Hand locked on his elbow, she worked him through a few more halls, eventually stopping them at a door too plain to belong to the royal suite.

"I thought you were going to bed.”

"I will in a bit, but I thought you might like a visit first." 

Anakin's brow furrowed. "With who?"

They'd left everyone in the sitting room. Even Milo, who was starting to blink sleepily at his cocoa by then. He didn't know anyone else at the palace. He wasn't friends with the staff like Obi-Wan. Even if they stayed on-world for a year, he didn’t think he would be.

Breha didn't answer. She unlatched from his arm instead, tapping a code into the panel fit into the wall. The door slid open quietly, spilling an inky blackness only possible on worlds that didn't have a moon. Nights were dark on Alderaan. The stars didn't give much light, and neither did the bobbing candle droid Anakin could see somewhere up ahead. Its dull, patchy glow was almost ghostly. The room could’ve easily been a tomb.

"Where are you taking me?" he asked, trying not to sound wary. He didn't know Breha well, and they'd never been alone. He didn't think she'd try anything. Her health wasn't good and she was small. Still, he couldn't help but be suspicious.

"Nowhere, if you don't want to go."

That wasn't an answer.

"And if I do?"

Breha wet her lips, and Anakin felt her awareness tighten like a coil. It relaxed seconds later, soothed by something she read on his face.

"The nursery. I thought the first time might be easier like this for you."

The wine-fed, buzzing warmth in Anakin's face sharpened, prickling like needles and spreading a chill. Because, she couldn't have said what he thought. It didn't make sense. He hadn't brought the children back up since his talk with Bail.

"You can say no,” she assured. “I promised Bail that I wouldn't pester you. I never stay long this time of night, anyway. It's just a quick stop before bed, so you can wait out here if you like. Regardless, I'm going in." 

She gathered her dress and slipped by him. Anakin felt her brush his side. He stiffened, less from the touch than watching the room swallow her. She hadn't been bluffing. He lost her in the shadow.

A few moments later, she reappeared as a smudge in the glow of the candle droid. She passed in and out of it several times before settling, bent in profile over what must be the crib. He couldn't see her well, but he could tell she'd dipped her arms in and could hear the lulling rumble of her voice. She was cooing at the babies, making sure they were sleeping. It wouldn't take long; she'd said as much. He needed to decide.

He padded his weight, rocking in place for several seconds. One hand dipped into his pocket, and the other ruffled his hair. He bit his cheek, hoping the burst of pain would give him clarity. It didn't. He felt caught in a snare. It wasn't what Breha intended, probably. She seemed kind, but he still wished she'd given him more time to prepare. If she'd mentioned it a few halls back, then--

Then what? He would've just tried to talk her out of it.

It felt stupid to admit that. Luke and Leia were just babies. There wasn't any real reason to be afraid of them. He was though, and the emotion clogged his throat. He'd failed them, and their mother, and Obi-Wan, and everyone, and he was terrified of getting close enough to do it again. 

Inside the room, Breha shifted. Anakin saw her break up the glow. Her shadow turned and he imagined she was staring down the hall at him. He couldn't see her eyes, but felt the weight of her regard.

It was that feeling more than anything that kick-started him. The Queen had taken a chance she didn't have to. She'd brought him down on a whim, without having any idea what he actually wanted. It was a risk, but apparently she'd decided to trust him. He didn't know what he'd done to make that seem like a good idea, or-- more likely-- what Obi-Wan had said. Whatever the case, he didn't want to disappoint her. If he did, he wouldn't get the same chance again. 

Forcing an exhalation, Anakin stepped inside and followed the light of the candle droid to where Breha stood. When he was close enough to see her smiling, she mimed for quiet. Anakin realized how loudly his boots were thunking and softened his steps.

"You don't want to wake them," she whispered when he came to rest beside her. Reaching over her shoulder, she bobbed the candle droid closer to the crib. Its glow spilled into the bed, soft and yellow and soothing. "They're sweet, but they scream loud enough to wake the dead."

Looking down, Anakin wasn't sure he believed that. They were so peaceful that he couldn't imagine them crying. Their swaddled bodies were huddled close, heads turned to puff breaths at each other. The little girl-- _Leia_ \-- had a nest of dark hair already forming curls. Her brother's was lighter and thinner, but his cheeks were just as fat. They had plump, sweet faces he had a hard time picturing screaming. They seemed too precious to make the ugly noise.

"They're--" He broke off, voice snagging when Leia stirred, upset by something in a dream. Her nose twitched and she gurgled, the sound wet and tender. Anakin bit his tongue. "They're small.” 

Breha sighed fondly. "They’re growing like weeds, actually." The hand she had in the crib smoothed Leia's hair. "You'll know what I mean in a few months, I’m sure. You aren’t going to believe how fast they shoot up."

Anakin didn't let himself think about what that meant. He _wanted_ , but he and the couple hadn't had that talk yet. 

"Can I," he started to ask, hand twitching against the crib. He didn’t finish, but Breha guessed and answered anyway.

“Of course. Just be careful.”

Not wanting to give her time to change her mind, Anakin sank elbow deep into the crib. He hesitated, hand hovering as he decided between them, then reached over the little girl. Leia was already being fussed over, and her more docile brother looked untended.

Not caring that his glove was dirty, he laid it gently against Luke’s chest, letting it rise and fall with his baby’s breaths. His hand felt huge by comparison, and it was almost alarming to see how much of the fragile body his palm smothered. Uncomfortable with the thought, he shifted to brush a few fingers over Luke’s face. The boy cooed and turned away, and Anakin stilled to let him adjust, not daring to stroke again until the baby stilled.

His thumb rubbed circles into the pudgy apples of Luke’s cheeks, and through the glove its electrostatic tip registered pressure. It didn’t pick up on texture, but Anakin didn’t need it to. He could guess how soft the boy was without it.

Careful not to wake him, Anakin reached to smooth his hair. It was making a few curls like Leia’s, but they were wispy. He brushed through them, choking on a whimper when the boy wriggled, burrowing sleepily. He sucked a breath that cut his throat and blinked through a burn. His eyes felt hot and irritated, and he didn’t want-- didn’t need-- to cry. He didn’t want Breha to think he couldn’t handle even this much.

Thankfully, she wasn’t looking at him. She was staring down at the children, her own hand tending to Leia. Occasionally glancing over at Anakin’s; she didn’t correct him, but he modeled his touch on hers anyway. Miming how she rubbed knuckles over tiny chest and cheeks, he finally got Luke to settle. When the boy accepted his touch without squirming, Breha hummed.

“He likes you,” she decided. 

Anakin felt stabbed. “He hasn’t met me.”

The woman shrugged. “Babies know. They sense things, I think. Anyway, they could meet you, you know.” She adjusted Leia’s swaddle, then reached over to fuss with Luke’s before gently guiding Anakin’s hand away. She took his wrist and brought them both out of the crib. “Bail and I are here every afternoon, and when we aren’t entertaining we spend nights with them in the gardens. You can join us, if you like. We wouldn’t mind the company.” She smiled gently. “Or having an extra set of hands at the ready for when they finally start walking.”

He bit his cheek, mind running a few dozen conflicting directions. “I haven’t--” He paused, shook his head, and tried again. “The senator said we’d need to talk.”

“We are talking.”

He frowned. “All of us. He said-- and I thought--”

He broke off, not really sure what it was he thought. He felt off balance and stupidly unprepared. He looked between the Queen and the crib, trying to reset. She gave him a moment, but he must’ve taken too long.

“Avoiding them isn’t going to make things easier,” she said eventually. “Believe it or not, Bail and I don’t want this to be hard. It isn’t a game, or a trap. No one’s waiting for the right moment to hurt you.”

“I didn’t say--”

“No, but you’re thinking it.” 

She looked up at him, the light making deep shadows under her jaw. The look she gave made his nape prickle with shame. He felt like a child caught sneaking out into the night chilled desert.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, and he meant it.

She breathed out slowly, mouth pursing in a way that didn’t help banish the image of this mother’s face. The Queen stared for a moment, then her hand found her hip. She propped her fist and canted, expression softening.

“Just come. Please. Speak with him first if you want, but it’ll be easier to find common ground once he’s seen you with them. They have his heart in their little hands. If he sees that you love them, he’ll be good to you. You _do_ have to show him, though. You aren’t the only one who’s afraid.”

She ended it there, saying goodnight to the children before making her way for the door. She let Anakin linger behind her a moment, giving him time alone to do the same. 

He made quick work of it, not wanting to test her mood. Reaching back into the crib, he rubbed both of their cheeks. He said goodnight, muttered a promise he wasn’t sure yet he could keep, then tore himself away, eyes stinging stubbornly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do we love Breha, or do we love Breha


	19. Homecoming, Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, y’all! Can’t believe we made it. I sincerely hope everyone enjoys the wrap. I wanted to end things softly, since I think we (and the boys) deserve it. It’s been a ride, right? Thanks so much to everyone for reading and commenting along the way! Y’all have made this process a thousand times more enjoyable!

The lights were powered down when Bail returned to the royal suite, but Breha was still sitting up in bed. She was nested under the blankets, hair loose and spilling over her shoulders, reading something in the glow of a candle droid. She looked more alert than she had when she'd left the sitting room. He'd suspected then, when she'd asked Anakin to escort her, but this confirmed his suspicion.

"Still awake?" he asked, tasking the door to shut behind him. He was working his tunic the rest of the way loose before it even sealed. "And here I thought you needed rest. You'll need to start dressing in a few hours, won't you?"

She smirked, the expression devious in the low light. The shadows under her jaw and eyes made her look otherworldly. Her hair ate up the darkness, and the strange light made her brown skin bronzy. Like one of the garden statues, he thought, if any of those could ever hope to be so beautiful.

"I would," she allowed, tapping her screen to close whatever file she'd been reading. "If things started right after breakfast as usual."

"If."

Her smile widened. "It seems I misremembered tomorrow's schedule."

“Did you?” Bail asked, feigning surprise. He shrugged off his tunic and laid it over a chair before continuing. “On the order of how many hours?”

The Queen pretended to count. “Six. As it turns out, my one and only meeting tomorrow isn’t until afternoon.”

He shook his head and finished shucking off his clothes. Breha looked over in time to catch a flash of skin before he got his robe on. He tied it off quickly, ignoring her pout. 

"Don't try to change the subject."

She canted her head. "What subject?"

"The subject of you scheming."

The woman made a scandalized sound as she set her datapad aside. When it was safely resting on her nightstand, she turned back to him. Slipping down more comfortably in bed, she propped up on her elbow, tossing her hair over her back to expose her neck. The long, slender curve was bare and inviting. Another scheme, Bail suspected, not that he much felt like complaining. Exhausted as he was, seeing her stretched still made him warm.

"You're paranoid, my love. Is it so hard to believe I mixed up my schedule?"

It wasn't just hard to believe. It was impossible. Her schedule, apart from being set weeks in advance, was confirmed and reconfirmed multiple times throughout the day. In all the years he'd known her, she'd never once misread a time or date. 

"If that were really what happened, we'd have no less than three aides to fire. Admit it, my lady. You wanted Anakin alone."

Breha puckered her lips, theatrically miming a pout. "And supposing I did? Don't tell me his jealousy is rubbing off on you."

Bail chuckled at that, absolutely assured that Anakin wasn't attractive to her. Which he didn't think maliciously. He was an undeniably handsome boy. His temperament left much to be desired, however, and he was a decade too young.

"Your liaison to the weaver's guild is stiffer competition."

Breha's attention cut down pointedly at the word _stiff_ , lingering on the low knot of his robe. When her eyes turned back up, they were half lidded and even in near darkness, the burn of her attention was palpable. Her teeth barely caught her lip, and it was tempting-- terribly so-- to let the matter drop altogether. Bail supposed it didn't matter. However she'd pestered the poor creature, it was done. Still, he was curious, and pressed on. 

"Perhaps you could've already been having what you want if you'd answer the question."

To make the point, he cinched the knot a little tighter before making his way to the bed. He padded quickly, bare feet cold on the stone, and fell into it next to her heavily. He groaned on contact, relieved and so tired that he knew he'd just fibbed to her. Sinking into the sheets, he didn’t think he could’ve stayed awake long enough for anything. The wine and late hour had sucked up all his strength.

It must've been obvious, because as he settled he heard Breha cluck her tongue. The sound was fond and indulgent, as was the way her hand wound into his hair. She fingered his bangs, brushing them away. It felt good, and when he pressed into it, she laughed.

"You're getting too old for all that wine," she teased before kissing his cheek. "And I think it took part of your brain offline. The only questions you asked were about my schedule, and I answered those. The rest was you making guesses."

"Fine, then. What did you say to him?" 

She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she took time to get comfortable. Bail felt her scoot closer, pressing all her warmth against his side. The hand in his hair cradled his head and her chin found the crook of his neck. She nuzzled, her nose and breath tickling the skin. He hummed, tilting to open more of it up to her. She rewarded him with a kiss. 

"What makes you think I said anything?"

"To begin with, he came back looking like you'd taken his heart out with a butter knife." Bail sighed when one of her nails caught a tender spot behind his ear. "Not to mention, he was gone for nearly an hour when the suite is -- what, a fifteen minute trip there and back?"

"Maybe he got lost," she said, skipping the first point. 

Bail logged it as a win, and went for another. "Our suite and the sitting room are off the same hall. I doubt he got lost on a straight shot."

She laughed softly. "So they are. But I don't suppose that's all your proof?"

He shook his head. "He also asked to speak with me tomorrow before the group split."

"Oh?" She pretended to be shocked. "About what?"

"You know very well what. What _I_ don't know is how you managed to get him to bring it up."

If he was honest with himself, and he generally tried to be, Bail hadn't expected the younger man to mention the children for at least a month. He'd been-- understandably-- thrown by their first conversation, and the senator assumed Anakin would want more time. That was fine, really. He'd meant it when he said he'd rather Anakin mull the subject over. He didn't have any desire to keep him and the children apart for longer than necessary, but he also didn't like the idea of Anakin rushing in on half baked reflex.

That didn't seem to be what was happening, despite how suddenly the boy changed tack. He'd spent all week very pointedly talking about anything else. Even the few times he and Bail found themselves alone, he hadn't brought it up. It'd been a shock to hear him do so that night, but not a nasty one. He'd kept his voice low, perhaps not wanting to be overheard. He'd looked tense, but that wasn't usual. Bail couldn't think of a time Anakin had looked comfortable. Even before, there'd always been an edge to him.

"I'll have to disappoint you," Breha said finally. "I didn't say anything special. I just--" She took a pause and nuzzled his neck. "I just pestered him a bit, I suppose. I know you asked me not to, but--"

"But when has that ever stopped you?”

He felt her laugh puff against the crook of his neck.

"Are you going to scold me?" she asked, already sounding like she knew the answer.

Bail shook his head. "Of course not. You're the Queen. You can say whatever you like to your guests. Only, perhaps warn me next time. Not knowing what to expect from him makes me uneasy."

"For now," she said, so confidently that Bail wondered where her reserve of it came from. "I suspect we'll all be comfortable soon enough."

He didn't answer, but privately allowed himself to hope she was right. He didn't want things to be awkward for them. Not just because he hoped to be able to depend on Anakin as a pilot, but because he loved Obi-Wan and the children, and wanted what was best for them.

"We'll see tomorrow, I suppose," he said instead of what he wanted to.

His wife, as usual, managed to interpret anyway. 

"I wouldn't worry." She nosed aside the collar of his robe to kiss his shoulder. "Those babies are sweet enough to bring out the best in anyone."

* * *

It'd started like so many of their sparring sessions and arguments had in what now felt like a lifetime ago. Obi-Wan asked a question Anakin had no intention of answering, and to distract from it the younger man bullied them into another subject. 

Historically, that bullying would've either come in the form of his friend dragging him to dojo, stonewalling the entire walk, or only speaking to instigate something. At best, that was. At worst, he might've started yelling. Anakin had never outgrown his boyish petulance. His tactics had changed, but he still snipped and pouted when they argued. His eyes still shined with frustrated tears though his snarl had gotten more deadly.

Thankfully, Anakin had found a distraction he liked better than snarling.

"This won't always work," Obi-Wan warned, though the words lacked weight. All of that was knocked out when Anakin backed him into the door. The younger man had hardly waited for it to close before pinning him against it. In Anakin's defense, however, Obi-Wan hadn't waited either.

They'd barely made it a few feet from the sitting room when he'd begun fishing for an explanation on what Anakin had approached Bail about. The two had been whispering, which was odd considering that Anakin still didn't seem to much like the man. Rather than answer, however, the younger man muttered for him not to worry about it. And perhaps he shouldn't have. Perhaps Obi-Wan should've ceded, or waited until the morning to ask Bail instead. He knew Anakin, after all. That he wouldn't get what he was after should've been obvious. 

It was difficult to be annoyed about that with a knee wedged between his thighs. 

"It won't even work tomorrow," he continued anyway, trying to keep up some semblance of a fight. "I'm going to keep asking, you realize."

"Not worried about tomorrow," Anakin growled, voice wine warm and raspy. "I don't believe you, anyway. So far it's worked every time."

That couldn't be argued with, much to Obi-Wan's embarrassment. Anakin had found a weak little hollow to nestle inside. The other wasn't shy about exploiting it; actually, he made a game of it. Obi-Wan got the feeling he was being picked at like an experiment. His hungry friend liked to explore and prod, to drag things out and see what new sounds he could earn. It was as humiliating as it was thrilling. Obi-Wan felt like a bobber on the end of a string, catching in the claws of something still deciding whether or not to eat him.

"Your luck can't hold forever."

It was a pointless thing to say. He didn't even believe it himself when Anakin's nose dragged up his neck. He moved with it, allowing his head to loll and expose more flesh. Anakin's laugh blew hot across it.

"Keep thinking that."

Obi-Wan whimpered when he felt the other's lips graze his throat. Anakin's mouth was plush and soft; surprisingly so. It was hard to reconcile how tenderly he kissed with the sharpness of his teeth. He could be tender, though, and _liked_ kissing, both which were surprising. Obi-Wan was sure some, perhaps even most, of that was for his benefit, which he appreciated. Anakin had been accommodating, which historically wasn't a word Obi-Wan associated with him. Apparently being allowed to paw as he pleased made the other more agreeable.

"You're insufferable," Obi-Wan said, thinly annoyed despite the pleasant ache building between his legs. He couldn't help but think of other, less enjoyable times Anakin had deflected, and wondered how many problems could've been avoided if the other just talked to him.

If Anakin sensed the disturbance, he didn't acknowledge it. 

"You're the one still talking, master." The word chewed up Obi-Wan's guts and he whimpered, the sound skating under Anakin’s voice as the other continued. "Come on. Get these off. I want to try something."

It took Obi-Wan's mind a moment to catch up. He wasn't sure it would have if Anakin hadn't been tugging on his tunic. Feeling addled, he swatted the other's hands away and stripped the garment off, tossing it aside carelessly. As he did, Anakin stepped back to peel out of his own clothes. He moved with more purpose, or perhaps practice. The thrum of his want didn't make Anakin's hands shake, causing him to fumble the ties of his pants. Obi-Wan couldn't say the same for himself. The pulse thumping his wrist made his fingers weak. His partner was finished and waiting before he got a proper grip.

Anakin used the time to make himself comfortable. While Obi-Wan struggled out of his trousers, the other went to kneel in their bed, settling near the middle. He fussed with Obi-Wan's pillows, fluffing them up before fishing under one of his own. He came out with something, but there wasn't enough light to guess what exactly it was. The single light from the 'fresher was enough to keep them from tripping, but not much else.

Whatever Anakin palmed, he tucked it under one thigh before turning to look at Obi-Wan in his corner. The gloom didn't keep him from gawking. The older man felt himself being measured. Anakin's attention, as always, was palpable. The sticky heat of it rolled down Obi-Wan's shoulders, over his chest, and down the line of his stomach. It itched like the scrape of stubble, making the older man shift.

"There's no need to stare," he muttered, crossing his arms.

"I won't have to when you get over here."

Anakin patted the bed, inviting the other to sit. Obi-Wan accepted, not liking the cold of the corner. The stone floor numbed his toes, and with the effects of the wine wearing off, Obi-Wan couldn't ignore that the air was crisp. 

That wasn't unusual. Even at the peak of summer, nights in Aldera could be chilly. The mountains saw to that. The beds were soft and warm though, and Anakin gave up heat like a fire. The last of Obi-Wan's curiosity melted from the promise of it. He could always pry again tomorrow. Whatever Anakin and Bail had discussed, he'd find out one way or another. The senator, at least, would tell him if he asked.

"Wasn't so hard, was it?" Anakin teased as the other settled, which was nearly enough to make Obi-Wan regret coming quietly.

"You're insufferable," he said again.

"And you’ve got a weird definition for suffering."

Before Obi-Wan could lob something back, a hand planted on his chest and pressed, trying to guide him onto his back. He allowed it, rolling his shoulders to squash down the pillows. They were cool, feathery, and comforting, and he relaxed. Only for a moment, though. As usual, his former apprentice couldn't stand to let a moment stretch. His impatience had his fingers digging in to pry the other’s knees apart. Obi-Wan's thighs clenched, nerves worming through his belly.

"What are you doing?"

When Anakin felt resistance, he softened his touch. His grip relaxed and he slid his hands over Obi-Wan's thighs, rubbing at them like Obi-Wan was a creature he'd unwittingly startled. 

"Getting close. Come on, open up. I know you like that."

He did like it. It felt good to have Anakin hovering, making a cage of his arms. It felt good to pant, a little panicked, and feel his chest brush another, realizing that between it and whatever he'd been backed against, there wasn't anywhere to go: no safe distance to claw to, no air to breath but what was fed to him. It made him pliant, tore noises up from deep in his belly. They were pitiful, bleating sounds, and should've been humiliating. It was hard to be embarrassed, though, when Anakin met them with groans of his own.

Obi-Wan gnawed his lip, replaying a memory of one of those growls and how it felt rumbling against his ear. It deepened the ache in his cock, and as much to relieve pressure as anything he relaxed his thighs, letting them be guided open.

Anakin muttered something that he didn't quite catch. His attention scattered when the other slotted close. Hard muscle met Obi-Wan's thighs and the fat, heavy hang of a cock brushed tender skin. Obi-Wan jolted, wondering then what Anakin had meant when he said he wanted to _try something_. Surely he hadn't-- no, but he couldn't have. They'd barely--

"Relax. Project any louder, and Del might hear you."

Obi-Wan frowned and started to say that he wasn't projecting. Before he could finish, however, Anakin moved to silence him. The younger man bowed, covering his body and ducking his head to catch Obi-Wan in a kiss. It was slow and insistent, too careful to be bruising, but Obi-Wan's mouth still felt sore when it ended. Anakin had caught his lower lip and suckled it raw. Even the gentle peck the other gave as they parted stung.

"Better?" Anakin asked, the word more gravel than anything.

Obi-Wan nodded, scraping his own teeth over his pout. It felt swollen, and he knew he should leave it alone. He sank the point of one tooth in anyway, enjoying the fizzling sting.

"Good. Now, if you don't mind." Anakin unbent, reaching back to pat around the covers, looking for something. "I've been thinking about it, and I'm pretty sure this'll work."

The idea of Anakin thinking of him like this-- naked and open-- when he should've been focusing on what he was reading, or something Del was saying, or a tour Bail was giving, kept Obi-Wan from asking what 'it' was. His thoughts caught on an image of the younger man forcing himself not to overheat and tore to shreds. By the time they restitched Anakin had found his prize, and asking would've been overkill. Up close, Obi-Wan could see the clear bottle and its viscous insides, and there were only so many things Anakin could have planned for that. All of them made Obi-Wan's gut seize up in knots.

"You aren't--" He swallowed hard. "I'm not saying this to flatter you, but I don't--" Another pause, this time to allow his gaze to turn down pointedly. "Anakin, I'm sure you won't _fit_."

"Not with that attitude," he teased, “but that wasn't what I was thinking. You should probably start with something smaller. And I think--" He popped the cap. “--if I leave my gloves on, I can do it myself without hurting you.”

Obi-Wan blinked, feeling off balance. “If you leave your--” He trailed off, sucking a breath when he heard a thick glob of lubricant squelch out. It smeared down one of Anakin’s fingers, coating him thickly. “ _Oh._ ”

The word came out weak, perhaps even a little panicked. Anakin frowned at the note, canting his head.

“Yea,” he said slowly, and Obi-Wan felt him prod at the edge of his mind. “Unless you don’t want to.”

“No,” Obi-Wan said, then bit his tongue, realizing the mistake. “I’m not-- opposed, I mean. It’s just been some time.”

So much time, in fact, that Obi-Wan was sure his last experiment had been when Anakin was still on Tatooine. It wasn’t that he didn’t like it the few times he’d tried; it was fine. He just tended not to have enough privacy. Qui-Gon was always in and out of his quarters, and it was better in those days to just get things over with. The economical approach eventually became his preference. It was easier, and he didn’t feel the urge often anyway.

“That's fine,” Anakin assured. Recapping the bottle, he set it aside and smeared the lubricant, evening out the coat. “I can go slow. I don't have anywhere to be if you don't.”

His fingers parted stickly and trailed up Obi-Wan's thigh, leaving a cold trail on tender flesh. The older man shivered, feeling the muscle jump, but forced himself to breath evenly. Instead of Anakin's hand, he tried focusing on his own. He made rhythmic fists in the blanket, crumpling it sharply when the leather finally met his ass. 

"Easy," Anakin said, planting his spare hand on Obi-Wan's hip. He wrapped his fingers, using his thumb to stroke the bone. The touch was familiar and steadying, and the older man went limp. "Good. Just try to relax. I'm not going to hurt you."

He sounded more confident than he had a few minutes ago, but Obi-Wan wasn't in the mood to split hairs. Thrill and anxiety were knotting his belly up, and when Anakin's fingers skittered nearer Obi-Wan was torn between burying his face and angling his hips. 

In the end, he settled for squirming. Anakin's fingertips bit into his hip, keeping him steady as his other hand found its prize. Sticky leather dragged over his entrance and Obi-Wan yelped, felt himself clench, the tension spreading from his shoulders down his spine. Anakin wasn't put out by it. He made a shush and circled the pucker, massaging lubricant and coaxing it open. When the tip finally slipped in, Obi-Wan gave another startled sound. The other shushed him again, thumbed his hip, and muttered, “You’re alright.”

And it wasn’t-- that was true. It didn’t hurt. Anakin had been careful, but the pressure and shallow drag made the older man gasp. He could feel himself working around the invasion, body unsure if it wanted to force Anakin out or drag him deeper in. The younger man worked through the tension, rocking his wrist for several long minutes, worming in deeper and parting flesh like nothing. It made Obi-Wan sweat. He could feel a fine, slick sheen of it on his face, could hear the strange hook in his breathing.

“Still with me?”

Obi-Wan nodded and hummed, not trusting himself to speak. The other had worked himself into the root. Every few seconds he felt the bump of a knuckle and whimpered, imagining how it must look: that thick, sturdy finger swallowed up. It made him twitch, cock stirring again in renewed interest, and Anakin must’ve seen it because he groaned.

He slipped out, slicked up again, and reentered in a single press, testing the give of Obi-Wan’s body and his reach. It punched out a noise that Anakin echoed, and he gave a few more strokes to tease it out again, tightening an aching coil in Obi-Wan’s belly.

“You’re tight,” he said eventually, the words stretched thin with wanting. From how close they were, Obi-Wan could feel his cock. It was trapped against his thigh, full of blood and heavy. “I don’t think-- maybe next time.” 

He slipped back out to scrape the pad of his finger over Obi-Wan’s rim before dipping in and crooking, feeling for something. He tried again every few strokes, finding spots so tender that Obi-Wan shuddered, chest and face flushed hot. He could hear the skittish sounds he was making and tried biting them back, a fact that Anakin clearly didn’t like. He snapped his wrist to coax them out. When it didn’t work he grunted, slicked up another finger and buried it, and Obi-Wan gave up on trying to keep quiet.

Anakin worked him slowly, pumping a steady rhythm until Obi-Wan was leaking against his stomach. It wasn't enough; he knew that. It made him throb, though, and try to rut though there wasn't anything to brush against. Even if there had been, he wouldn't have been able to reach it. Anakin's grip was absolute on his hip. The best he managed were a few stilted jolts, which did nothing but break Anakin's rhythm and pull frustrated grunts from them both.

"Want something?" Anakin asked, like he couldn't feel the other trembling or see him dribbling sticky onto his own skin. Obi-Wan nodded, lip aching where it caught between his teeth. "Touch yourself, then. I'm not stopping you." 

Later, he'd probably hate himself for how quickly and desperately he complied. Just then, however, he couldn't bring himself to care. The suggestion kicked him into gear. Unwinding a fist from the blankets, he took himself in hand, hissing from the sweat slick heat of his palm. His hips stuttered in Anakin's grip, deepening what would be bruises come morning. The bright points of pain cut through enough of the fog to give Obi-Wan clarity to adjust his hold. 

Twisting, he worked himself over in frantic strokes. He could hear the tacky noise and smell his own sweat, hear the squelch of Anakin pumping beneath the other's ragged breath and the gruff cuss he gave before starting to rut. The feel of that-- Anakin's slick, fat heat rubbing against him-- landed like a kick to the teeth. The girth and weight made him dizzy, and when he spilled over his knuckles, it was to the thought of how those uneven, vicious thrusts would feel _inside_.

Anakin wasn't far behind. While Obi-Wan lay, boneless and warm, the other spat through his teeth and came on his thighs. Obi-Wan whimpered from the hot spurt, and from the insistent rocking of the other's fingers, stroking a tender spot to milk the aftershock. It sparked all the older man's nerves, made his spent cock jump helplessly, and was nearing the edge of discomfort when Anakin stopped. Panting, he eased his fingers out and bowed to kiss Obi-Wan's knee before tumbling onto the bed beside him.

They lay like that for several minutes, each reining in their pulses. When his finally settled, Obi-Wan knew he should get up to wash. His thighs and stomach were sticky, the drying come making him feel filthy, but he could feel Anakin's signature radiating uncertainty. Beneath the golden, contented glow, the other's attention was sharpening. It probed the edge of Obi-Wan's mind, not dipping in despite the fact that the older man had never felt more open. An old anxiety kept him in the shallows.

It was a familiar feeling. Obi-Wan had felt it rolling from Anakin for as long as they’d known each other. There was always a ripple in his bravado, a shivering need to be _told_ he’d done well, soured by his inability to ask. It was a constant, and Obi-Wan clung to it, turning in bed to face the other who he found staring, unblinking in the gloom. 

He smiled at Anakin, still feeling untethered, and reached out between them to tug the soiled glove from the other’s hand. That’d need a wash too, but just then it wasn’t important. He tossed it aside, focusing on the bare hand instead. Taking the large thing in both of his own, Obi-Wan brought it close, feeling a thrill at the way Anakin’s breath snagged. He dragged it to his mouth, kissed the fingertips and rubbed the palm, trusting the relays and static gold sensors to tell Anakin what he needed.

Anakin made a startled, unexpectedly vulnerable sound. The fingers twitched in Obi-Wan’s grip, brushing his face. As though he had no defenses for it, the younger man let himself be handled, his feelings brimming over with the slightest, tenderest pink. He didn’t say anything, which the other hadn’t expected. What Anakin felt usually caught like a stone in his throat. He didn’t pull away though. If anything, he scooted closer, and allowed himself, for the first time in months, be handled carefully.

* * *

The next morning, Anakin woke up to the smell of spice bread. It floated through the room, cloying and sweet. It dragged him out of a dream, or maybe the light of early morning had. Whatever the case, it perked him up almost instantly.

He forced his gummy eyes open with a grunt and rolled his shoulders, drawing in a deep, stretching breath. He’d slept well; better than he had in months, actually. Coming out of it was disorienting and it took a second to remember where he was. When he did, he relaxed against the covers again. Alderaan was as safe as anywhere could be now.

“Good morning,” a voice-- Obi-Wan’s-- said from somewhere behind him. 

He heard the shuffle of a robe sliding to the floor, then boots clunking on stone as the man came closer, smelling like cinnamon.

“What time is it?” Anakin asked.

“Just after dawn.” His old master came into view, blocking the golden early light bleeding in through the window. Only for a second, though. He dropped to a crouch at the side of the bed, bringing himself to Anakin’s level. In one hand he had a mug of steaming cocoa, and the other: a pastry bag. The parchment paper was greasing through and smelled like sugar. “Don’t fret. You haven’t overslept.”

He set the cocoa on the side table before tearing open the bag to reveal a huge mound of spice bread. Steam curled out around it, mixing with the earthy smell of the cocoa. Anakin could feel the icing on his teeth.

“Where did you get that?”

Against his tired body’s wishes, he forced himself onto his elbows and reached without asking for the bread. When Obi-Wan didn’t snatch it back, he took it as permission and tore off a segment, stuffing it into his mouth sleepily.

“The docks,” Obi-Wan said, signature blooming rosy as Anakin sucked a glob of icing from his thumb. He pressed the bag closer, offering another bite. “I think the baker remembered me. She didn’t give anyone else nearly as much icing.”

Anakin wasn’t sure if that was a good thing. The knotted dough dripped with the sugary stuff. From just two tears of the pastry, his fingers were already gritty. It tasted good, though, and smelled better, so he didn’t complain. Instead, he reached with his free hand for the cocoa. Obi-Wan didn’t stop him from taking a gulp of that, either, and shook his head when Anakin offered him the mug.

“It’s for you,” the older man said. “I had mine while I was walking.”

Anakin cocked his head. “Thought you said it was early.”

“It is. That’s the best time at the docks.”

Anakin thought back to the chaos of their arrival: the waterfront and rings packed with bodies. He didn’t see the appeal, or understand why at least some of them didn’t use air taxis.

“Surprised you didn’t get trampled by fishermen.”

Obi-Wan laughed, shaking his head. “You only get trampled if you don’t move. Honestly, you act as though you’ve never been in a crowd.”

“Been in plenty,” he muttered, tearing off another segment of bread. “Doesn’t mean I have to like them. Flying is better.”

Obi-Wan didn’t respond. He let the short conversation drop off, giving Anakin time to enjoy his breakfast. The younger man took it happily, ripping off chunks and sucking his fingers clean, stopping now and then to wash the cloying taste down with a drink. The sugar worked quickly, eating away at the last of his sleep. It wouldn’t last, he knew. There was always a crash. He’d be groggy before lunch if he didn’t sneak something more substantial from the kitchen. That Obi-Wan had brought this for him, though-- well, maybe it was worth it.

He was almost done with the bread when the older man spoke again. "Do you like it?" he asked, watching the younger man chew. Anakin thought it was a stupid question. He could feel the icing in the corners of his mouth. He nodded anyway, though. "So do I. It's my second favorite."

Anakin swiped his mouth clean before asking, "What's the first?"

"The Temple kitchen’s. It's not even a contest, really." His easy expression fell fractionally. "I wish I knew what blend the bakers used. I'm certain no one else in the galaxy could do better."

Anakin swallowed thickly, his throat suddenly dry. He took more cocoa, hoping that would fix it. He agreed. The Temple's spice bread was the first thing on Coruscant he attached to. He'd never had it or hot chocolate before, though he used to smell both in Tatooine's market. They were too expensive to waste on slaves, and he'd never expected to taste them. But then he'd gone to Coruscant, and the bakers were so thrilled by his appetite that they let him gorge. 

They plumped him up on the stuff until he'd gotten sick. So sick, in fact, that he couldn't eat it for years. Despite the fact, though, it was a happy memory. Maybe one of his best. It was-- uncomplicated. When things got messy at the warfront, or with Padme or the Council, Anakin used to take a moment to revisit it. He'd remember the taste and warmth of those first few days at the Temple, and it'd settle him enough to drag things into perspective. Now though, in light of everything, it stoked an equally familiar guilt. The bakers who'd been so kind to him were probably all dead.

"Obi, I--" He paused, shifting uncomfortably. He felt the weight of a dozen things he knew he should say. They made his tongue feel heavy, and clumsy, and stupid. He cleared his throat and settled on, "I can't fix it."

The older man stared for a second, considering the words. The nearly empty pastry bag crinkled in his hand. He looked down at the last smears of frosting, brow pinching in memory of something. Anakin didn’t try to figure out what. It would’ve been invasive.

"No," he said eventually, "You can't." There wasn't anger in it, but for a moment a bone deep sadness spread out from where he sat. It seeped into Anakin's skin, so aching and homesick that it made him nauseous. Then, as quickly as it came, it faded. The older man took a steading breath and reset a cautious smile. "But there's always a way forward for people who want one. You do, don't you?"

He did, more than anything he'd wanted in a long time. He wanted whatever good thing he could grab. He wanted whatever Obi-Wan and the Organa’s could stand to give him. He wanted to do something that didn't make his lungs feel burned. Something that wouldn't make Padme's spirit ashamed, or Obi-Wan regret trusting him again. The other had laid so much back in his hands, and he was as afraid of crushing it. He'd never quite trusted himself with breakable things.

He wanted to be able to, to be someone Del and the others could honestly depend on. He wanted it so badly that it made his heart pound, near to bursting, and instead of croaking out something embarrassing he answered with a nod.

Obi-Wan accepted it, and for a moment Anakin was so grateful that the warm sugar in his belly churned. 

“Well,” the older man sighed, taking an obvious stab at lightening the mood, “you can start by not dragging your feet on the way to the meeting.”

Anakin’s brow pinched. “What meeting?”

“The one with Bail. I ran into him this morning, and he asked me to have you stop by his office. He wants to fill you in on what you missed last night, and presumably finish the discussion you took such great pains not to share with me.”

His stomach swooped again, full of nerves and too much sugar too early. He pushed up higher onto his elbows and sipped more cocoa to buy time.

“He wants me there soonest, I guess.”

“That was the impression I got. Though--” His smile warmed. “--I wouldn’t worry. For what it’s worth, he didn’t sound like he was dreading it.” 

With that, Obi-Wan gathered himself up out of his crouch. He crumpled up the pastry wrapper, checked the cocoa, and left it alone. With his free hand he reached down to ruffle Anakin’s bed messy curls. A nail caught Anakin’s scalp and he hummed softly, leaning into it. The older man echoed it, sounding fond, and scratched again. Just once, though. He pulled away, straightened up and made for the door.

“I’ll be in the library when you two are done,” he called back, not slowing his pace. “If you can control yourself enough to keep quiet, feel free to join me.”

The door sealed behind the man, leaving Anakin alone in the brightening morning glow. The soft pink light that’d eased him out of sleep had sharpened to a glare through the transparisteel. He blinked against it, wrinkling his nose, and pushed himself up fully. Turning to dangle his legs off the side of the bed, he took up the mug of cocoa again and sipped. There wasn’t much left, and when it was done he knew he’d have to start getting dressed. It wouldn’t give him long to stall, but he took the chance anyway.

It could’ve been any one of a thousand mornings, he realized with a gutting twist. Padme could’ve been seconds away from slinking out of the ‘fresher, or Ahsoka about to come barreling into his rooms, or Obi-Wan leaving them for meditations and muttering for him not to be late again. The sun was slanting like it always did, its cycle uninterrupted by everything that’d happened over the last year, and hadn’t. Like life down in the city, the pattern kept running, unbroken. 

It made him feel smaller, and inexplicably relieved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t look at me I’m crying. But also, very happy to finally have this story complete. It was always meant to be a relationship fix-it and set up for the boys making through to ROTJ together, and I think we’ve done just that :)
> 
> Again, thanks everyone! I’ve loved hearing from y’all so much. If I see y’all on future fics I’ll be equally as thrilled. I hope the story continues to bring excitement and joy to you!!


End file.
